


That Touch of Madness

by Elfbert



Series: Battles [1]
Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: Civil War, Conflicted Emotions, Fighting, M/M, Pre series, Wartime, first meeting fic, idiot cowboys, idiot soldier boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: Two men meet on the battlefield. Amid the chaos and confusion a friendship is born. One that will last them a lifetime. If they let it.'If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything.'Paulo Coelho





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to all in Westfic for encouragement, and Stephantom for beta reading.

The noise was deafening. The smoke blinding.

Through the acrid clouds came the screams of men, the crack of musket and rifle fire. The heavier boom of cannon or shell.

Pete reloaded, fired, moved, reloaded, fired, moved. Always looking around him, watching. Watching the enemy, when he could see them. Watching his comrades, when he could see them. Knowing both sides were depleting in numbers. Both sides were falling.

His foot hit something soft, and he didn’t need to look down to know it was a body.

But he did need to know what uniform it wore. A quick check told him it was blue.

They were still advancing.

There was a shout of pain to his left. A wretched scream.

Something whistled past him, punching a hole through the smoke. A hole through the ragged grey line.

He looked to his right, and saw a gap in their advancing company.

“Close up, close up!” he shouted.

There was a yell from behind him, and he risked a glance over his shoulder.

More soldiers, looking as tired and beaten as he felt.

He was only a corporal, but he hadn’t seen an officer since the fighting really started, so he flung an arm up.

“Get to the high ground!” he shouted at the leading man - a tall kid, face and uniform coated in mud.

“Go, go!” he urged them. “If they get the high ground we’re all dead!”

There was an odd look in the kid’s eyes. As if he was going to argue or question.

“Go!” he yelled. “For God’s sake, go!”

The few ragged troops did his bidding, disappearing into the smoke and chaos.

He fought on.

It was impossible to guess how long it had been, but eventually he realised the gunfire coming back at them was slowing. The bodies no longer loomed out of the mist.

The battlefield was quieting around him.

But all the guns falling silent did was accentuate the screams and cries of the dying and injured.

 

Smoke still drifted, and he called out to the men he was with.

“Hold the line, hold the line. We don’t retreat ’til we got orders. Hold the line.”

 

Men around him panted and shook, some cried.

But they didn’t retreat.

 

Finally the orders came through that the fight was over. The day won. A ragged cheer went up. Some sporadic gunfire in celebration. But most men had already turned back to their fallen comrades, some searching the bodies of the dead, others looking for a friend, or even relation.

Weary, dirty men slowly filtered back to form groups and companies, ready to set up camp once more.

A few officers appeared, calling out orders, and slowly, some semblance of structure returned, even as men helped support or carry their friends, instead of falling into marching step.

Pete checked the few men he had left with him, and walked slowly, looking down at the dead as he did so. He recognised a few faces, and shook his head. Young men, dead in the mud. Nothing to show for it. A line held today that would mean nothing tomorrow.

Some officers on horseback approached them, urging them onward, forcing them to form a column, shouting at them.

Finally they were back in camp. Not that there was much. Few tents, fewer facilities. Some men had already lit fires, and there were cooks preparing what supplies they had.

Pete found his regiment, what was left of it. Glancing around, checking which faces were there, which were missing. Hoping more would trail in.

There were kids going out now, too. Young boys, ready to carry back the wounded, bury the dead. See things that would probably haunt them for the rest of their lives.

He sank down onto the ground near a few of the men. One of their sergeants was doing a roll call.

His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. Eyes stinging from smoke. The stink of gunpowder clinging to his tunic, his hair.

 

The camp slowly settled. Most people weren’t talking. An odd silence. A counterpoint to the noise and chaos of the day.

“Nolan,” a voice near him called.

He looked up.

“Clean yourself up, take this to Major Wright.”

The sergeant handed him the paper. A rough list of their casualties. Dead. Injured. Missing. Alive. Lives reduced to stark numbers.

“Yes, Sergeant,” he jumped up, taking the paper and tucking it into his pocket, then tried to set his uniform to rights.

It took him a few minutes, begging some warm water from another corporal to splash over his face and hands, and he borrowed a stiff brush to work some of the mud from his jacket.

Then he headed for the tents, where men in clean uniforms stood sentry duty outside the neat line of canvas.

He saw Wright standing out in the open, talking to another man, so altered his course, then slowed a respectful distance away.

The discussion happening was heated. The other man was about half a foot taller than Wright, and had his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Pete carefully kept his head turned away, only sneaking the odd glance.

“There ain’t enough, Sir,” the taller man was barely being civil, his deep voice quiet, but still easy to hear across the short distance. “If you get ‘em to release some of the supplies from the officer’s…”

“No. And I suggest you return to your Company and hope the Colonel doesn’t hear about this.”

“They won’t fight, Sir. And why should they, when they ain’t even gettin’ fed, Sir.”

There was a pause, and Pete sneaked another look. The two men were staring at each other. And suddenly he felt his stomach sink as he recognised the taller man.

It was the kid from the battlefield. The kid he’d given an order to. The kid who was apparently an officer. One with a temper, at that.

He almost groaned.

“Go, Lieutenant,” Wright ordered, voice sharp. “Before I put you in front of the Colonel myself.”

Pete pulled himself up to stand to attention as the young officer turned, anger obvious in every line of his body.

He snapped a salute as the man approached him.

He saw the exact moment he was recognised. The kid’s eyes stopped on him, then he frowned.

“What’s your name, Corporal?” he was asked, the voice hard, eyes cold. He looked older now, older than he had on the battlefield. Older and more tired and far more controlled, except for the look on his face that showed the boiling anger inside.

“Nolan, Sir,” Pete replied crisply. Wishing he hadn’t been sent to the major. Wishing he hadn’t been spotted. Wishing he’d paid more attention earlier. His eyes flicked to the single bar on the man’s collar, mostly concealed in mud.

He might have washed, but the young officer clearly hadn’t, face still muddy, hat missing, a streak of dark dried blood behind his ear.

“Right.”

The man kept walking, and after a moment the Major beckoned Pete forward.

“Sir,” he saluted. “The list of killed and injured, Sir.” He handed over the paper, still folded.

“Thank you, Corporal,” Wright said, with a slight sigh. “Dismissed.”

Pete saluted again and turned smartly, walking away, alert and waiting for the Lieutenant to emerge from somewhere, and for his own rank to disappear shortly after.

All he could really think was that his father would be disappointed. He’d always wanted Pete to get to sergeant, at least. The same rank he held, with pride, before he retired - the rank he held now, when he’d been called back, asked to help with supplies, now he was too old to fight.

He made it back to the camp fire, glancing around at the weary men.

He couldn’t relax now though. Not without knowing what the young lieutenant would do to him.

 

The food was poor, and there wasn’t nearly enough of it. He didn’t have much of an appetite anyway.

Finally a figure loomed over them, stopping at the edge of their small circle around the fire.

“Corporal Nolan.”

Pete stood, brushing himself down and saluting. A few others made the effort to rise, but the Lieutenant waved them back.

Pete waited. He knew there would be no hiding it from everyone else, but he also hoped he wasn’t about to be stripped of his rank in front of everyone, not for such a stupid mistake.

The lieutenant’s gaze slid over the men watching, waiting. Some were even smiling in anticipation of the show. His eyes were slightly narrowed, as if he were taking it all in, calculating.

“Come with me.”

He almost sighed in relief, and followed the lieutenant, whose long legs carried him swiftly across camp. Pete almost had to run to catch up.

Finally they were away from most people, and the lieutenant glanced around.

“Did well today.”

Pete stared. He waited for the ‘but’.

“Saw you was leading that squad. Where were your officers?”

He shrugged, then realised he needed to be a lot more respectful. “I’m not sure, Sir. Guess I…lost track, Sir, in the fighting.”

“You stepped up, though.”

Pete wondered if it was a trap.

“I am sorry, Sir. I hadn’t seen your rank. I would never have…”

A hand was waved, dismissing his apology.

“It don’t matter. You were right. If we lost the high ground we wouldn’t be here now.”

Pete ducked his head and gave a small smile. He knew he’d been right. He also knew that wouldn’t have mattered one bit to most officers he’d known.

“I…thought you were going to have my rank, Sir,” he admitted.

He watched as the man’s long fingers reached for the bar on his own collar, now somewhat cleaner than it had been. He guessed the man had tidied himself up some before coming to find him.

“We need more like you, an’ less like them,” the officer jerked his head toward the tents, fishing his makings from his pocket and beginning to roll a cigarette.

Pete grinned, appreciating the raw honesty.

“Can I ask your name, Sir?” Pete asked.

The young man looked surprised. But gave a slow nod.

“Favor. Gil Favor.”

Pete held out his hand. “Pete Nolan.”

“Good to know you,” Gil shook the offered hand.

“I am sorry, Sir,” Pete reiterated. “I really wouldn’t usually…”

“I didn’t know what I’d walked into,” Gil cut him off. “Needed someone who knew what the hell was going on. You did. I don’t hold that against you.”

“I…” Pete shrugged. “Guess so, Sir.”

“Just figured you should know. I mean, that you ain’t in no trouble for it. I know some’d hold it over you. I won’t.”

Pete just nodded, then quickly threw a salute as it was obvious Gil was leaving.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He stood for a moment, looking up at the stars, where they weren’t obscured by smoke from camp fires. Then headed back to his men, thanking the Lord above that he still had his life and his rank. And maybe even an ally in the young officer.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

 

They’d barely had time to bury the dead before they were on the move again. New orders, new battles to fight. Trying to keep up with the enemy, to outmanoeuvre and outgun them at every turn.

 

One evening he was walking the perimeter of the camp, checking on the sentries, when he saw Gil rubbing down a large horse. As he got closer he heard a low murmur of talking, and for a moment thought he was interrupting.

Then he realised it was Gil talking to the animal.

“Uh…Sir?” he said, softly, glancing around and seeing no one else nearby to notice that he was approaching a senior officer.

Gil turned quickly, a scowl on his face. Then he grinned, and Pete smiled back, stepping forward.

“Sorry, Sir, I just…was passin’,” he said awkwardly.

“How you been keeping?” Gil went back to rubbing down the horse, then stood, allowing the animal to nudge at his arm and chest with it’s nose as he stroked a gentle hand over its cheek.

“Fine, thank you, Sir,” Pete nodded. “And you?”

Gil gave a shrug.

Pete looked at the ground. He hadn’t really known what he expected, but the young officer didn’t seem as friendly as he had been a few nights before. He wondered if he was pushing his luck, even talking to him.

“Nice animal,” he reached out and patted the horse’s flank.

That seemed to get Gil’s attention. “He’s young, ain’t fully trained. None of them are, now. Good, though. Strong.”

Pete shrugged. “We been dismounted two months now.”

Gil shook his head. “Ain’t right, cavalrymen being afoot.”

“Ain’t my place to argue, Sir,” he replied. “No horses to be had, so they say.”

“I’d sure argue,” Gil gave a small smile. “You signed up to the cavalry, don’t expect to end up infantry.”

Pete shrugged. “Didn’t rightly sign up to anything, Sir. I was in before the war. Working with the Indians, mostly, like my Pa did. ”

Something seemed to change in Gil’s expression, although Pete couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Surprised you’re talkin’ to the likes of me, then,” Gil said, turning away and busying himself with checking his horse’s tack.

Pete frowned. “I…didn’t mean to disturb you, Sir,” he answered, feeling unsure of himself.

Gil stopped what he was doing but didn’t turn back. “It don’t bother you? I joined up at the start. And you’re calling me ‘sir’.”

“No, Sir,” he answered, truthfully. “I seen you can fight. And I heard you, the other night, asking for more rations for the men. Seems you’re just the sort should be where you are.”

Gil huffed out a small laugh at that.

“Really? Didn’t do no good, did it? Didn’t get the extra, did I?” There was a bitterness in his voice. 

Pete gave a smile. “You tried, Sir. ’S more than most do.” He gave the horse another pat, then glanced around again. “Anyway, Sir, I should…” he gestured vaguely away.

“Sure,” Gil turned back to his animal, rubbing long sure strokes over its back.

 

He spent the rest of the evening thinking about their conversation.

A lot of the younger officers had a certain arrogance about them. Most of them came from money. Gil Favor didn’t seem to be like that. Certainly didn’t seem to have the airs and graces a lot of them did.

Had seemed almost embarrassed about the difference in their ranks.

Pete sat by one of the campfires, coffee in hand. A few other corporals and sergeants were also sitting around, mending clothes, working on their weapons and chatting. He watched the men. Some he’d known for years, others had only recently joined. A lot of new faces. A lot of old ones, missing, left buried in the land they’d once worked.

He didn’t really hold any grudges against those who had signed on to the new regiments, been given ranks above his own. He’d always been fairly happy in his work - accepting what the army gave him. 

 

Over the next few days he made gentle enquiries, tried to figure out what anyone knew about the Lieutenant. And didn’t find out very much. He couldn’t ask any officers, and didn’t want to start any rumours amongst the men. Most of the corporals and sergeants didn’t know anything.

Gil’s unit moved out, clouds of dust obscuring their departure. Pete tried to pick out the tall lieutenant from the ranks, but he couldn’t, and had to return to concentrating on his own business of drill.

 

They’d made a slightly more permanent camp, near the banks of a small river. They’d been there two days now, and Pete appreciated the rest. Some were still getting over minor injuries received in battle, and it gave a chance for the supply chain and new recruits to catch them up.

There was a slight commotion as someone rode into camp, dust being kicked up into the air, billowing across men and equipment. Had to be an officer, then. Anyone else would’ve been dragged from the saddle by now.

He idly looked up from coffee he was drinking, watching.

The rider was leading a spare mount, moving with purpose, glancing around.

And heading for him.

Something made him stand, push his hat back and squint into the sun.

The horses and rider stopped in front of him. “Corporal Nolan. Major Wright wants you. You’re to come with me.”

He looked up at Gil. The lieutenant was covered in dust, bringing out the lines on his face, thick in the wrinkles of his clothes.

“Sir,” he saluted.

“Pack your gear. You’ll be away a few days. Where’s your commanding officer?”

“Major Dunne will be in the officer’s quarters, Sir,” Pete gestured. “I’ll get my things.”

Gil gave a nod, and swung out of his saddle, stretching. “That coffee?”

Pete glanced down at the half-full cup. “Yes, Sir.” He hesitated for a second - there wasn’t any more, it had been the last of the pot. “Here, have it, Sir.” He held the cup out. “I had one already.”

Gil hesitated. “Really?”

Pete nodded, holding the cup out a little further.

Gil’s face broke into a smile as he took it, swirling the liquid in the cup and gulping it down.

The smile had changed him. Lit up his eyes.

Pete got the feeling he didn’t smile very much.

 

It didn’t take him long to gather his few belongings - they lived on the move, always ready. He was just strapping his bedroll on to the saddle as Gil walked back across camp. Stride long, but his head slightly bowed, as if he didn’t particularly want to be noticed.

“Ready?” Gil asked, curtly.

“Yes, Sir,” Pete nodded.

“Let’s get goin’ then.” There was a last glance around from Gil, eyes sharp, gaze lingering on a few things as they mounted.

Pete couldn’t help but look around too, wondering what Gil saw that he didn’t.

 

They rode from the camp in silence, and Pete couldn’t think of anything to talk about. It wasn’t his place to talk, anyway. He chided himself. It would be all too easy to forget that he was with an officer.

It wasn’t until they were well away, riding at an easy canter, that Gil glanced across at him.

“He wants you come an’ talk to one of the tribes. They got some information or something.”

Pete nodded. “How come he asked for me? If you don’t mind me asking, Sir?”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’,” Gil answered.

“I think…perhaps I should, Sir,” Pete smiled. “Or I might not when I need to.”

Gil seemed to accept that. At least, he didn’t argue.

“I told him about you. Remembered what you’d said the other night - about what you did before the war. Said I knew where to find you.”

Pete nodded. He was surprised Gil had remembered, but glad. It was good to be riding again, and good to get away from the boredom of the camp.

“Seems like I’ll be more help here than back in camp, then, Sir,” he smiled. 

Pete could tell Gil had spent a lifetime in the saddle - moving easily, reins held loose, relaxed.

They covered the miles swiftly, but darkness still overtook them, and they were forced to slow and let their mounts pick their way along the trail.

Finally Gil reined in. “Figure we should stop, get some rest. I ain’t been out the saddle all day. We can still be back with them early tomorrow.”

Pete nodded - he couldn’t say he was sorry to have a chance to dismount and stretch. Riding on a spare horse with someone else’s saddle wasn’t as comfortable as it could be.

They both worked in the darkness, tying up their horses, unsaddling them, rubbing them down.

“I’ll get ‘em fed, if you get a fire going,” Gil’s deep voice came out of the darkness.

“Yes, Sir,” Pete called, and felt his way around, gathering some sticks and twigs, eventually finding enough for a small fire. He knew once he had a bit of light he could probably find more.

He could hear Gil’s movements, the odd gentle murmur, presumably directed at the animals.

“Ain’t got a lot of food,” Gil said.

“I’ve some,” Pete answered. “Supply wagon came into us yesterday.”

“Guess that’s one advantage of being afoot,” came Gil’s answer. “You ain’t always three steps ahead of supplies.”

Pete smiled to himself and lit the small fire, watching the flame stutter then catch, gently blowing on it as it began to singe some of the brambles and grasses he’d put on.

Soon they were both sitting on their bed rolls, and Gil had produced a small coffee pot which was nestled in the flames.

“Mind if I ask what you did, Sir, before the war?” he asked in one of the long silences, as the pot began to gently steam.

There was a long pause. He wondered if he shouldn’t have asked.

“Cattleman. Worked on a ranch,” the answer finally came.

Pete gave a nod. It explained why Gil was a decent rider.

“Must’ve been quite a change, joining up, Sir?”

Gil gave a small humourless huff of laughter. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“I ain’t known anything different,” Pete volunteered. “My Pa was a soldier, so we used to travel about a lot. Lived different places. Pushed out West.”

Gil nodded. “Still, this must be different. War. We used to see the soldiers come by sometimes. Most of ‘em didn’t look like they’d manage much in a fight.”

“Some couldn’t. Some didn’t, Sir.”

There seemed to be a slight sagging of Gil’s shoulders. “No.”

 

Pete didn’t envy the officers in battle. It was bad enough trying to keep order in the few troops he watched over. Bad enough when one of them died.

Gil must be in his mid-twenties, Pete guessed. Although he’d seemed older back in the camp. Tall, deep voice, a sort of solidity about him. Pete could see why he’d been chosen to lead men. Moments like this, though, he seemed like he could be even younger. Hugging his knees up to his chest, making himself small. Short hair falling over his forehead. He held a thin cigarette tightly, taking short, hard, drags on it. Like he was nervous. Unsure.

The war had made a lot of men grow up too fast. Not that anyone got to grow up slow, on the frontier.

Pete guessed he’d been luckier than many. His mother had helped out with schooling, and was an outgoing, gregarious woman. She’d found it easy to make friends, even with the wives of officers. Sometimes they’d move with his father, sometimes stay back in the larger garrisons. Whichever was chosen his mother had made the best of it, and so had he, the constant flow of new people meaning you had to learn to get along with strangers.

The army had provided for them - it wasn’t much, but it was stability, a place to live, mostly enough food and water. Education, friends, and a chance for him to see the country.

So when he’d reached eighteen he’d joined up with barely a second thought, intending to do exactly what his father had done. He’d learnt a lot over the years, some sign, some words, customs and traditions. It had seemed the obvious thing to do, and he’d enjoyed his work.

Then the war had started.

He watched Gil, who was staring out into the blackness of the night. Imagined the kid as a cowpoke. Tried to imagine him whooping and hollering at beeves on the plain. Loud and drunk in a saloon. Somehow he couldn’t.

Wondered if Gil’s career was tradition too. Maybe his family had a ranch. Maybe he’d been born into that life just as Pete had been born into the army.

Maybe he was sitting and dreaming of home - a big ranch house, on a huge spread. Grass and cattle as far as the eye could see.

Gil moved suddenly, reaching for his makings and beginning to roll another cigarette. As if he had felt Pete’s gaze upon him.

Somehow, Pete got the feeling there wasn’t a big house. Or a big spread.

He watched as Gil struck a match with his thumbnail. There was cracked skin around his fingertips. Dirt under the nails, ingrained in a few cuts. Working hands.

The flare of the match lit up Gil’s face as he inclined his head to light the cigarette. A few scars there, too. A nose that had obviously been broken. Maybe more than once.

He wondered how the kid had ended up with braid on his cuffs and a bar on his collar, because it didn’t seem to add up at all.

 

They cooked up a poor meal of some of the dried vegetables from their rations, a little dried meat and some hard tack mushed into it, eating in silence.

The coffee Gil had made was strong and bitter, and Pete watched as Gil wrapped his hands around the tin cup, taking long swallows of it.

Pete sipped his own.

 

Finally they bedded down. The day had been hot, and the ground was warm.

Gil pulled his long coat over himself, head on his saddle. Pete watched him settle.

And wondered.


	3. Chapter 3

Gil was already awake the next morning, and the coffee pot was almost boiling, by the time Pete awoke.

He spent a moment lying still, watching.

Gil was chewing his thumbnail as he read something in a small notebook.

Suddenly the dark blue eyes were on him, and Pete made a show of stretching and yawning, hoping he hadn’t been caught staring.

“Morning, Sir,” he smiled.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” Gil gestured to it.

Pete nodded, tightened his belt and did up the buttons on his uniform, then left to relieve himself a short way from their small camp.

The morning was still, the rising sun casting long shadows across the land.

He could almost forget there was a war on.

 

They rode out as soon as the coffee had been drunk, covering the remaining miles within an hour or so.

Pete knew they could easily have made it to the camp the night before. And it hadn’t seemed as if Gil had particularly wanted them to spend the time alone. They’d barely said more than a few sentences to each other. It made him wonder about Gil even more. And he wished he could read the other man a little better.

Still, Pete wasn’t going to complain. He’d far rather a night out under the stars than in a busy camp, and he’d far rather spend the time with someone who was quiet than someone who talked non-stop.

 

His welcome into camp was terse, and he was immediately set to work, riding out with a senior officer to try and find out what the local tribesmen knew.

He was used to working with different people, so didn’t mind being thrown in with unfamiliar officers. He did his job, trying his best to accurately translate, and sitting quietly whilst he listened to the officers around him discuss what they wanted him to say.

It was a stark difference, though. He was ignored. Spoke only when spoken to. For the hours he worked no one offered him water or food. Not one word of thanks at the end.

He rode back to the camp with the soldiers who had stood watch around them. And once they were back and had been dismissed from their duties he found himself a little lost.

The men in camp were still riding out drill. He avoided them, looking for a spare patch of ground to make his own. He was glad the weather seemed set fair, so he wouldn’t have to worry about making any sort of shelter.

 

He took out his own small notebook and made a few brief notes of some sign he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. He hoped he’d done a good enough job interpreting. You could never be sure. And he felt now more than ever that he needed to be right. He read back over his previous notes, checking up on past meetings and impressions he’d got from other tribes and leaders, to see if anything would help.

He was dragged from his thoughts by boots in the dust in front of him.

“Nolan? You’re wanted, come on, come on.”

He dropped his notebook aside and scrambled to get up.

The sergeant looked stern, so he brushed himself off a little and stood to attention.

“Sergeant?”

“This way.” The sergeant set off and Pete fell into step behind him.

 

The area at the top of the slope had tents pitched, sentries posted and a few officers milling around. There was a fire lit at the end of the row, and some junior officers seemed to be sitting on crates or barrels near it.

“Lieutenant Favor,” was the only clue he got as to his reason for being there, as the sergeant smartly pointed to an open tent flap.

He ducked inside, and saw Gil sitting on the floor, a crate in front of him covered in papers. Around him were other chests and boxes with all of the essential army paperwork stored in them, lists and ledgers and books.

“Come in, sit,” Gil gestured without looking up.

Pete was already bent over just to fit in the small tent, so gratefully sank to the floor.

A pair of boots were sitting next to the crate Gil worked on - cheap, well worn, the leather scuffed and sagging slightly. Pete realised Gil was sitting with his legs crossed, bare feet with long toes nestled in grass which hadn’t yet been trampled flat.

“You…wanted me, Sir?” Pete asked, after a leaving a respectful pause.

“Oh, sure - there’s coffee, there,” the pen pointed to two steaming mugs on the edge of the crate.

“Oh, I don’t…I mean, it’s…” he stuttered, unsure of what to do.

Dark blue eyes lifted from the paper work, and he saw a sadness in them.

“Figured I owed you, from yesterday.”

And suddenly he felt bad, for not just accepting.

He reached for the cup. “Thank you, Sir.”

There was silence, then, save for the scratch of pen on paper, the occasional noise from outside. He wondered if he should leave, but Gil had made no sign that he ought to.

Finally the pen was thrown down, and Gil grabbed for the other mug, groaning and stretching out long legs, one knee popping loudly.

“How’d it go, you manage to talk to them Indians?” Gil asked.

Pete glanced to the still open tent flap, then nodded.

“Sure did, Sir.”

“They know anything?”

Pete swirled his coffee around in his mug. Not sure what he could say. So he played it safe. “I told the Major what they said, Sir. Don’t know that I can repeat it.”

He barely heard the sigh, but he guessed it had been coming.

“Right.”

He couldn’t really imagine what it must be like, working on a ranch, or out on the range. He guessed there weren’t as many secrets, not so many orders you couldn’t question. But he wasn’t sure.

He finished his coffee in a long swallow. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll…let you carry on working,” he moved smoothly to his feet.

“You don’t have to go,” Gil was pushing his hand through his hair. Looking even more like a kid, with his shirt unbuttoned, bare feet.

“I think I should, Sir.”

He tried to salute, even bent over as he was, and walked away, not looking back.

 

The camp was quiet, a few murmurs of voices, the odd sound of a horse letting out a snort or whinny, the occasional burst of laughter.

Pete lay on his back, comfy on his bedroll, looking up at the stars.

He’d spoken to a few people, heated up some food over a fire and shared some of his jerky in exchange for some greenery one of the corporals had foraged for in the woods.

 

Most people weren’t particularly interested why he was there - they’d seen enough faces come and go to take it in their stride, so he didn’t have to avoid too many questions.

He stood and stretched, yawning, then headed down the slope away from camp to take a piss and fill his canteen from the stream before he bedded down properly.

There was a small woodland there, and he stopped at the edge, relieving himself against a tree.

He slowly became aware of more voices. Quieter, a little muffled. Not conversation, either, but sharper sounds, more like shouts or whoops.

He frowned, then set off, picking his way carefully through the trees in the darkness, hands out to steady himself. A few times he stumbled over roots and fallen branches, and then finally he could see a few lights, flickering and wavering.

For a moment he faltered, but he knew he had to go on - just in case it was some sort of raiding party or surprise attack. Even a few precious seconds of warning could be the difference between life and death for some.

Creeping forward he realised the gathering was in something of a natural clearing, where a large tree had fallen, its roots wrenching the earth up and forming a dip in the ground, around which a circle of men had formed.

He watched for a short time, assessing.

It was obvious what was happening - the hisses and shouts of encouragement, the tension in the air, barely controlled. Whoever was in the pit was fighting - a real bare knuckle dirty fight, he guessed. 

It wasn’t his unit, and these weren’t men he knew.

But he didn’t see a single rank stripe or insignia in the dim light of the few lanterns being held up.

So he stepped forward, taking a deep breath.

“Every man here who ain’t back in camp in sixty seconds goes on report,” he shouted.

The effect was immediate - most didn’t even look at him, just ran. He knew how it went - safety in numbers. As long as you weren’t actually caught then in situations like these you were pretty safe. You and your mates would all give each other alibis. Officers would never pin anything on anyone.

He walked forward and looked down into the hollow.

As he’d suspected, two men were scrambling out, in different directions. Neither looking in any condition to get far.

A couple of quick strides took him to the closest one.

The single lamp that had been abandoned hanging in the tree roots showed dirty light coloured hair, matted with blood on one side. Blood smeared across a cheek, eye swollen.

“Name,” he demanded.

“Benson, Sir.” The man didn’t look up.

Even if he was lying about the name, with the state of his face Pete knew he’d be easy enough to find in the morning.

“Go,” he sighed. “An’ don’t let me - or anyone else - catch you out of line again. Got it?”

The man nodded, one hand wrapped around his middle, and moved off into the darkness.

Pete glanced around. He couldn’t see the other fighter, but knew he couldn’t have gone far.

He grabbed the lamp and took a few steps the other direction, listening.

Whoever it was obviously wasn’t capable of being stealthy. He wasn’t surprised.

He could find his way swiftly now he had a light, and soon saw the back of the man, who’d managed to shrug a shirt on, although it still hung loose.

“Stop,” he commanded.

There was a moment where he thought the order would be ignored. Then the figure did stop, leaning up against a small tree.

“Name,” he repeated his earlier demand.

The man slowly turned, face scrunched against the light.

He felt his eyes widen.

“Sir?”

One of Gil’s eye’s was bruised, a cut was bleeding freely on his cheekbone. More blood trailing from one corner of his mouth and his nose.

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed. “Aren’t there enough people trying to kill you in this war? Come on, Sir, we got to get you seen to.”

He reached out for Gil’s arm, but was shaken off. He could see the tension still running through Gil, eyes wide in the gloom, never still, fists ready at his side, shoulders squared.

“Go back to camp. I’m okay,” Gil growled, voice low.

“No,” Pete shook his head. “No, you ain’t.”

He didn’t reach out again, but began walking. Gil walked too, the two of them pushing through the trees and bushes.

“You got a tent?” Pete asked.

Gil didn’t answer, and Pete gave a small sigh.

“Need to clean you up someplace, don’t need an audience.”

Gil gave a small gesture toward the camp.

“Won’t be no one in the one we was in earlier.”

 

Pete steered them around the edge of the camp, avoiding everyone he could, until finally they reached the back of the row of tents.

“Wait here, Sir,” he gave Gil’s arm a squeeze to emphasise the point.

He looked up and down the row, then flipped open the flap on the tent, glancing inside. There were just the same boxes and crates as there had been earlier.

“Come on,” he beckoned Gil to join him, unceremoniously shoving him into the tent and closing the flap.

He turned the lamp down low, leaving just enough light to see with.

Gil slumped down onto the ground, leaning back on a heavy wooden box, one long leg tucked under himself, the other stretched out.

“What was that all about, then?” Pete asked, keeping his voice soft, conversational.

“Nothing,” Gil wiped his sleeve across his face, dark blood smearing out over his cheek.

“Looked like a whole lot, for nothing.”

Pete pulled his own bandana from his neck, doused it in the small amount of water he had left in his canteen, and reached out.

He wasn’t gentle, as he held Gil’s head still, fingers in his hair, thumb holding his cheekbone, wiping away the blood so he could see which injuries needed tending to.

“He was on the prod. I wasn’t going to let it go.”

Pete shook his head, pressing hard on the cut on Gil’s cheekbone, ignoring the flinch.

“You’re an officer!” he couldn’t help but tighten his grip on Gil’s skull a little. “It don’t matter what they say to you, it don’t matter if they curse you and your Ma to hell and back, you don’t stoop down. You give him a lacing and what does it prove? Nothing. Proves you ain’t no better than he is.”

“Proves I ain’t going to take it,” Gil mumbled.

Pete was unsure what to say. He knew it wasn’t his place to say anything. He tried to keep hold of his temper.

“And they’ll know they can get you all riled up. And they won’t stop, once they know. They ain’t got nothing to lose. You do.” Pete pulled the bandana away from Gil’s face, watched as the blood only welled up very sluggishly now, and pressed it back on again.

“What do I have to lose?” Gil threw a hand out. “This? Paperwork and being ordered ‘round by everyone?”

Pete shook his head again. “You need to pull your horns in. You think this is bad? You see what it’d be like to be busted down to sergeant - or worse. Because you think they’ll give it up, just because you lose your braid and bars? They won’t. They’d go at you for that, instead. May as well fight that as bark at a knot. Only way you can beat them is by being the officer, by living up to it.”

The fight seemed to be ebbing out of Gil. Pete could feel the tension slowly lessening, the slight sag in Gil’s body.

“They don’t think I’m an officer anyway. Or don’t think I should be.”

Pete re-folded the bandana, tipped a little more water onto it. “Clean yourself up. Mind that cut, it’ll bleed again.”

He watched as Gil carefully wiped at his nose, then sniffed hard and spat into the grass.

“All you’re doing right now is showing them you ain’t an officer. And for what? You think your pride’ll hurt less if you get busted down?”

He took the bloody bandana back, holding Gil’s hand to the light, tipping it to look at his knuckles.

“Well, you sure must’ve hurt him some, if this is anything to go on. It’ll be sore come morning,” he continued.

Gil stayed silent, but pulled his hand back, cradling it against his chest.

Pete turned away slightly, wetting the bandana once more, squeezing it out, trying to clean some of the blood from it.

“Lot of people didn’t start this war thinking they was officers, or even soldiers, when it come to that. You got it in you, I know you have. I seen a lot of rich men buy their rank, and I seen a lot of poor ones get theirs on merit. I can tell you which I’d rather take an order from.”

He watched Gil’s face. The shadows made him seem older. More serious. But there was a slight smile tugging at his mouth, too.

“I didn’t get here on merit. So what does that mean?” Gil finally said, softly, not looking at him.

Pete sat, arms loosely around his knees, looking at the bruising starting to come out on Gil’s slim frame. “So how did you?” He hoped that, somehow, he could help the young man in front of him by letting him talk.

Gil gently pushed at his lower lip. Pete wondered if he’d had a tooth knocked loose.

“Rich man wanted me here. His kid got made Captain. Wanted me to do his work for him - I can read, write. Most couldn’t. Wanted me to look after him. Told to keep him safe.”

“Who?” Pete asked. He didn’t know all the officers in the company, but he still wanted to know, still wanted to keep an eye out for the man Gil answered to.

Gil shook his head. “Died. Two months in. Gut shot.”

Pete shook his head. So many young lives lost. “He your friend?”

That got him a little huff of laughter. “No. Man don’t need friends out here though, does he.” A statement, not a question.

He wanted to reach out, to offer some sort of support, because the bleakness in Gil’s eyes was almost painful. Put in a place you didn’t belong, and then losing the only person you’d known there. He could understand how Gil had come to push against his rank, the army, everyone.

In the end he gave in. Squeezed Gil’s shin, feeling the tough leather of the boot under his palm. “Man needs friends out here more’n he’s ever needed them before, kid,” he finally said.

He wasn’t expecting the half-choked off sound that got from Gil. “Why? To lose them again?”

He found he couldn’t answer, his own memories of all the people he’d lost flipping through his head like a catalogue. Old, young, people he’d only known a few days, people he’d known most of his life.

“To fight for,” he eventually replied. “We need them to fight for.”

 

The silence stretched, and Pete eventually realised his hand was still heavy on Gil’s leg. He removed it, looking down at the lamp, at the discarded cloth by it, stained with Gil’s blood.

He took a deep breath.

“When they ask you what happened, in the morning, don’t tell them you were fighting.”

“Think they won’t know?” Gil reached up and gently prodded his puffy eye.

Pete gave a small grin. “You’re an officer. If you flat out deny it - say…say it were an accident, say you come off your horse, they won’t question you. You give your word, they won’t push it.”

“They’ll know, though,” Gil pushed.

“Sure they’ll know, but they won’t do nothing. You’ll see.”

Gil gave a wider smile, one that finally looked genuine. “This what you learnt, all these years in uniform?”

Pete nodded, smiling back. “Sure it is. Army’s got systems, traditions. You learn them, ‘stead of fighting them, you’ll see.”

Gil shifted slightly, his foot knocking against Pete’s hip. “You going to teach me?”

There was a certain tone to the question. Joking, almost. But underneath, serious.

He found himself nodding. “I can try.”

Gil smiled again, and a little blood welled up out of the re-opened cut on his lip. His tongue slid out, swiped it away.

“You ain’t called me ‘sir’ once in here,” Gil said, softly, looking at him.

Pete gave a smile. “In here, figured you needed a friend. Out there,” he gestured with his thumb, “I’m still just a corporal.”

Silence fell again, but it was different now. Gentle, friendly. Two people who didn’t need to talk, rather than two people who were avoiding it.

“I’m turning in,” Pete finally announced.

Gil held out his hand, and Pete took it, careful not to squeeze the bruised knuckles.

“Thanks,” Gil said, softly. “I owe you.”

“Welcome.” Pete stood, brushed off his uniform. “And tomorrow, you get out there, an’ you stand up straight and you don’t give them no hint of how you feel. You’re their officer, an’ that’s what they need you to be.”

Gil nodded, standing too, movements awkward, stiff.

 

Pete walked out into the warm summer night. The smell of the horses and smoke from the fires drifting through the air. He sighed.

He had no idea if he’d made a good decision or a terrible mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days he was busy, riding out with officers and patrols, trying to teach some of the men the basics of some tracking. He saw Gil a few times, mainly in the distance. He tried to ignore the younger man. Tried not to watch.

But somehow he found his gaze drawn across the drill ground that had been chosen, or across camp.

So he spotted that Gil’s uniform was a little cleaner, buttons all remained fastened.

The bruises on his face were deepening to blue and purple. The cuts healing.

But when he saw Gil close up, the damage was still obvious.

“Corporal,” Gil’s voice was always deep, but when he was speaking quietly it seemed to drop a little more.

“Sir?” He’d snapped to attention as Gil approached, and was pleased to see the men he was with had done the same.

“Goin’ back to your company,” Gil answered, glancing around at the other men. “Stand easy,” he commanded.

Pete gave a small smile.

“Gather your things. We leave soon as you’re ready.”

 

Pete did as he was told, then walked to the lines of horses, where he’d seen Gil saddling up.

He watched as long fingers did up buckles and pulled tight on straps. Knuckles still bruised and swollen, fingernails still dirty.

He checked over the saddle on the horse he’d ridden before, then mounted up, calming the animal when it skittered slightly.

The rode out of camp in silence, going at a steady canter.

Once they’d put a few miles behind them Gil slowed his horse down, and Pete followed suit.

“You know, you don’t have to ride with me, if you don’t need to,” Pete said.

“Got to pick up supplies. Information. Whatever else they got,” Gil answered, glancing around.

Pete nodded. He didn’t want to go back to his old company, not really. Not when it meant slogging through the countryside on foot. And he found he didn’t want to leave Gil, either. He’d spent enough time over the past few days wondering how he was getting on, without the prospect of being miles away, no idea if they’d ever meet again.

He glanced across to see Gil looking around, his expression tired, and a little bit sad, he thought.

“How’s it been going?” He finally asked. “Get in much trouble, for…” he gestured to his own face.

Gil gave a small smile. “Did like you said. They didn’t argue. Could see Wright wanted to, but…”

Pete smiled too, glad he’d been able to help.

“And the one you was fighting? No trouble there?”

Gil shook his head. “Ain’t spoken to him. Just been keeping my head down, giving out the orders I been given.”

“It’s how it works,” Pete nodded.

Gil was silent, their horses had fallen into step. Each of them glancing around, always scanning their surroundings.

“So,” Pete eventually started. “You…always been a cattleman?”

Gil glanced at him, and Pete felt like he was being assessed, checked to see if he was serious.

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Since I was a kid.”

Pete found himself smiling at that. He couldn’t help but think Gil was still a kid. Out of his depth in the adult world of the army.

He was probably only a few years older than Gil himself. But he was at home, not wrenched away from everything he’d known, everything he’d fought for so far in life.

Sometimes making some parts of a man grow up so fast left other bits behind.

There was an ever present tension - and anger - in Gil. And distrust in his eyes.

On the battlefield he supposed it served the young man well.

But it certainly didn’t make him easy to be friends with.

“Enjoy it?” Pete asked, dragging his thoughts back to the conversation.

Gil shrugged. “I’m good at it.”

There was no boastfulness there. Just a bare fact.

“Not the same as enjoying it,” he pointed out.

Gil sighed. “Nothing else I can do. And yeah, I do enjoy it. Most of it. Out on the range, on your own, or with a crew.”

“Tough life, though,” Pete pushed.

Gil shrugged. “Maybe. No tougher than this. Just different.”

Pete wanted to point out that ‘this’ was war, not a regular job. But he didn’t.

“Your Pa want you to join up?” Gil asked.

Pete couldn’t help but smile then. It was the first sign that Gil was interested in talking, interested in learning about him. Maybe even interested in being a friend.

“He wouldn’t have minded, if I’d chosen different. But he’s proud, sure. Wants me to move up the ranks, though.”

“He fighting someplace?” Gil asked.

Pete shook his head. “Too old. But he’s still working, down near Corpus Christi, in supplies.”

Gil gave him a wry smile. “You mean there really is someone working supplies? It ain’t just a myth?”

Pete laughed - they’d been struggling to get hold of any equipment for months, and the further North they pushed the worse it got.

“So he says,” he answered. “Maybe he’s keeping ‘em all for himself, huh?”

He took a swig from his canteen, glancing around. “Your Pa a cattleman, too?”

It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. The look on Gil’s face changing completely.

“No.”

And he didn’t push further, didn’t dare. He knew that whatever they had between them was too fragile for difficult questions.

 

He became aware of Gil looking to their left more often, and squinted into the distance.

“Follow me,” Gil finally said.

Pete did as he was ordered, aware that Gil’s tone had changed. Gone was the unsure kid, and in front of him was the Lieutenant Favor. But he paid more attention to the expanse of grassland to their left.

Gil led the way, heading for some foothills, leading them into a draw.

“What are you…there ain’t a way out of here,” Pete protested, looking up at the steep sides. He’d seen the dust of the riders, too, now.

“Don’t need a way out,” Gil answered.

The going got difficult, rocks and shale had fallen from the steep sides, along with entire trees which threatened to block their path.

“Here,” Gil dismounted near one of the trees, it’s bare dead branches covered with vines and ivy. A thick canopy, forming a dark cave.

He tied his horse as tight into the mess of overgrown leaves and vines as he could, then pulled tendrils and leaves over it’s hindquarters, and helped Pete do the same.

As they walked away Pete had to admit the two brown horses did blend in fairly well, if you didn’t know where to look.

“Now we need a place,” Gil glanced upward, slung his gun onto his back, then scrambled up some rocks, hands gripping into a crack, boots slipping on the sheer face a few times. “Come on,” he panted, twisting and reaching down for Pete.

The grip on Pete’s arm was tight, and he pulled himself up, both of them perching on a ledge before Gil moved upward again, and Pete guessed he was heading for a larger space, where a few bushes had grown on a crust of dirt.

It wasn’t easy, but the reached the small shelf and shoved themselves into the stiff, prickly bushes, backs to the rock, both panting, pressed together at shoulder and thigh.

Pete watched as Gil held his still-bruised hand close to his chest, flexing the fingers.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Patrol, maybe? Three, four at most.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nodded. “You don’t think they’re ours?”

Gil shook his head. “Weren’t moving like a patrol. Were looking for something. Shouldn’t be no-one out this way, ‘cept us, until we hit your lot,” Gil said, seeming a little more relaxed.

Pete watched as he seemed to work automatically, readying his gun, checking lines of sight out of their hiding place. Pete copied his movements. He guessed the riders would either find them or miss them within the next hour, so settled for the wait.

He thought they’d probably been there for about half an hour when Gil’s large hand landed on his thigh, squeezing. “Shh.” It was barely a whisper, like a breeze through leaves. But he froze, glanced at Gil and followed his gaze.

A man stood at the top of the cliff.

Gil’s hand moved, slowly, fingers dragging over Pete’s leg, and finally onto his gun, ready, waiting.

The man stayed on the cliff edge looking down into the draw for a little longer. Then finally walked away, an arm movement suggesting he was telling people he was with that they could move on.

Pete let out a breath.

Gil didn’t relax, gun held tight.

“Didn’t see us,” Pete finally ventured, voice low.

He smoothed the fabric of his pants. Brushing over the point where he could still feel the warmth of Gil’s palm.

“Give it a while, make sure they don’t try an’ come down here,” Gil answered.

Pete nodded.

Gil’s fingers never seemed to stop moving, picking at the braid on his sleeve, stroking the stock of his gun, the wrinkles in his pants.

Eventually Pete reached out, laid his palm on the back of Gil’s hand to still it.

“Nervous?” he asked softly.

Gil gave an embarrassed grin, which made him look even younger. “Really need a smoke.”

Pete smiled back, and left his hand where it was, because Gil had made no effort to move away from the touch. And because that admission was the closest he thought he’d get to Gil saying he’d been scared.

 

Eventually they continued on their way, checking the ground at the top of the draw and peering into the distance the way the tracks led.

“You be okay, coming back this way?” Pete asked, once they started riding again.

Gil nodded. “Sure. Reckon they won’t be back a while, now.”

Pete nodded, but he was concerned. Riding out alone, no one to help out, no one to watch your back.

He found he was often unaccountably worried about Gil, and was slightly scared to examine why. Just like he hadn’t wanted to examine why it had felt so right to touch Gil’s hand.

He gave himself a mental shake.

They were just friends. Not even that, they were an officer and a soldier, and as soon as they were back with his unit, they wouldn’t even be that.

Gil would ride away and that would be it.

 

He removed his belongings from the horse once they were in camp, then fed and watered both animals whilst Gil reported in.

Then he hesitantly walked up into the area filled with officer’s tents, wondering if he could offer to help load the supplies back onto the horse he’d been riding.

Gil walked out of a nearby tent and gave him a small smile.

A Lieutenant Colonel was approaching them, and everyone snapped to attention as the Major Gil had been with stepped forward, handing over some papers that Pete knew Gil had been carrying.

He stood, watching, trying to gauge the expressions on the officer’s face, but found himself distracted by Gil, still standing at attention, every bit the officer - and also a good half foot taller than both of his superiors.

Finally the man grunted and glanced up at Gil. His eyes narrowed.

“Been fighting?” he snapped out.

“No Sir,” Gil answered smartly. “Fell off my horse, Sir.”

The look he got in return would have made most men quake in their boots.

“Look like you’ve been fighting, boy,” the Colonel snapped.

“Only with gravity, Sir,” Gil answered, straight faced.

Pete had to turn away slightly to hide his grin, and control his laughter.

 

By the time new orders had been issued and sealed and supplies had been gathered the day was almost done.

“Will you be staying, Sir?” Pete asked, glancing around at the nearby men. “Should I speak to the Captain about getting you a tent?”

“Should be getting back,” Gil answered.

“Be dark before you’re halfway, Sir,” Pete answered, fingers gripping gently on the horse’s tack.

“Horse can see,” Gil answered. “And I ain’t never been afraid of the dark.”

“Still, with that patrol we saw. Sir.” Pete shook his head. “I don’t think it’s right, Sir.”

Gil shrugged. “Well I ain’t been offered a bunk here. I might not be a…gentleman,” he smiled. “But I know better than to crash in on some when I ain’t invited. Ain’t like the open range here, is it? Ain’t about helping one another. All about helping yourself.”

Pete glanced up to the tents. Remembered Gil fighting for provisions for battle-weary men - it felt so long ago.

He watched as Gil mounted up, and handed him the reins to the other horse, now laden with sacks and bags.

“Good luck, Sir,” he said, quietly.

Gil touched his hat, with a wry smile. “Thanks, Corporal.” He adjusted his glove slightly, then finally looked Pete in the eye. “For everything.”

Pete stood on the makeshift road and watched the dust rise from the hooves of the horses, as Gil disappeared into the light of the setting sun.

He hoped they’d meet again.


	5. Chapter 5

He settled back into his routine, familiar faces, familiar work. He found himself unsatisfied, though. Restless.

Wishing he could do more of what he was good at - the few days of being back out in open country, talking to the natives, had made him realise he could be doing so much more than running drill and slogging on long marches from place to place.

He also found himself wondering how Gil was doing, if he was staying out of trouble. If he’d even made it back to his camp.

A few times he found himself lying in his bedroll, listening to the sounds of sleeping men all around him, thinking of when they’d been hiding, pressed against each other. Or when he’d been mopping the blood from Gil’s face, skin warm, stubble rough under his fingertips.

He knew people grew close. You had to, in the army. Had to trust people with your life. And he’d known men found comfort in each other. It was never spoken of, never discussed. But he’d seen it. The emotions laid bare, after battles. Won or lost, as people lived and died. Seen the desolation, the way one bullet could kill two men. Or the relief, the pure joy of having survived another day spelt out in the tightest hugs, the half-hidden tears, the bruising grip of hands on arms.

He hadn’t ever thought he’d feel that way, though. It was a job. He did it well.

He didn’t need to spend his time thinking of another man. Let alone an officer. And one he’d probably never see again, at that.

Didn’t need to imagine the deep blue eyes. Or the half-smile. Or the deep voice.

Shouldn’t think about him, either. Should concentrate on his job, such as it was, and his men, and put all the other - pointless - thoughts out of his mind.

Except his thoughts seemed as unruly and bad at following orders as the subject of them was. And there didn’t seem to be a way of talking any sense into them.

Didn’t seem to be a way not to let his heart soar a little whenever a rider approached on the horizon.

So he did his job, and followed his orders, and hoped that he’d hear a whisper about the cavalry to the north of them as he stood outside tents and waited to speak to officers.

 

Weeks later, and after a punishing march to the east, his usual routine was broken by a sergeant finding him during another of the endless sessions of drill.

“Corporal, get some men, clear the wagons. Been a clash up ahead, need transport for the wounded.”

He felt something deep inside himself tense with worry. But he nodded, took a group of men and began heaping their supplies and other trappings of battalion life at the side of the road, making sure to leave a clear path.

He was glad to have the work to do, because all he could think of was the fighting. The wounded. The young officer who would doubtless have been in the thick of it. The young officer he couldn’t stop thinking about, despite himself.

It had probably been cavalry out scouting, or perhaps they’d been ambushed as they moved. Surely they wouldn’t have started a battle, not without their infantry.

Not without him.

 

Soon enough the wagons were rolling out, pulled by an assortment of mules and horses.

The camp was readying itself, readying for casualties, survivors, readying to bury the dead. A ritual they all knew by now.

Word was spreading around, rumours growing from nothing. An ambush, a slaughter, the enemy painted as monsters.

He knew what it was like, he knew there would be no truth in them - how could there be, none of these men could know more than he did. He still couldn’t help but worry.

 

It seemed like hours later that the first horsemen appeared. Ones and twos, dishevelled, weary, uniforms dirty. Some supporting others, some leading horses with a few bodies thrown across them.

It didn’t look like it had been a victory.

He waited, helping fetch and carry, ordering men to begin digging a grave.

They would need to move on. March onward, leave the dead behind. Men would want to fight, would want to avenge these deaths. The cycle of violence churning through the war.

The trickle of men grew stronger, and every time he could he searched the faces, looked for the Gil’s tall figure. Should be easy to spot, standing a good few inches taller than most.

Every time he was disappointed.

And now they were getting the real story. A surprise attack on their camp, a raid on horseback, designed to hit hard. Their weapons and horses targeted as much as the men. The cavalry was supposed to be the eyes and ears of the army, scouting fast, moving quickly. Now they had been blinded and deafened, and the enemy could move freely, close in on them. Pick them off.

Pete knew they needed more troops, and needed them fast.

 

The casualties were laid out, what little medical help they could offer was given to them, wounds bandaged, sips of water offered, bones splinted.

It did nothing to dull Pete’s worry. The sight of men with gaping wounds from sabres, the ugly holes where bullets had torn through flesh, as well as the white of bone pierced through skin from falls or being struck by the terrified animals.

He worked without pausing, and feared looking down to see a face he knew.

 

Finally, as he helped unload a wagon full of the dead and dying he heard the deep voice. He felt for a second as if the world had frozen around him. But there, bloodied and weary, but upright and walking, was Gil. And for a second, their gaze met, and Gil gave him a slight nod, and almost a smile, before turning back to help someone else move to the grassy bank where the casualties lay.

Pete found himself taking a deep breath, and realised his hand suddenly had a slight tremor as the stress and tension of the past hours seemed to suddenly ebb away.

He covered his surprise, moving quickly, wiping his hand over his sweaty face.

 

It was hours before he finally managed to stop, taking a long drink from his canteen, surveying the lines of injured. Occasionally a shot would ring out, as a wounded horse was put out of its misery. Some of the men would jump, flinch away.

Pete knew the feeling.

A hand slid onto his shoulder, the briefest moment, a slight squeeze.

“Pete,” the voice behind him said. “Anything you need. Supplies? Water?”

It took him a moment to answer. Somehow he just couldn’t force his mouth to cooperate with his mind. The memory of the gentle touch felt as if it were humming through his skin.

“Water, Sir,” he finally managed. “Water would be…I can get it, Sir.” He finally dared to turn. To look up.

Gil’s face was dirty, mud and blood and dust all sticking to his skin. But he was there, he was in one piece.

“You…you hurt, Sir?” he managed to ask.

Gil shook his head. Silent. Gaze locked on Pete’s own. As if he was reading something deep within Pete’s soul.

Finally he took a deep breath, surveyed the wounded.

“I’ll get that water, Corporal. You stay here.”

Pete watched him go. Unsure of how to deal with the feelings that seeing Gil again made well up inside him.

 

As darkness fell, silence did not. The cries and moans of the wounded echoing across camp.

The light from fires was dancing across the weary men as they found anywhere they could to settle down, whilst others still worked to try and save the lives of those who had been in the fight.

Some wagons had already moved on, with the most severely injured, hoping to reach one of the field hospitals.

Pete had found a spot with some of the other corporals and sergeants, sitting and looking over camp. Some of the men would be edgy, others bristling for a fight. They were all ready to step in - to pull men apart or to bring them back if they tried to run.

A figure loomed out of the darkness.

“Corporal Nolan, with me.”

The difference in Gil was noticeable. His voice, his stance, the steadiness in the order.

Pete stood, and other men scrambled to their feet to salute.

“As you were,” Gil waved them back. “You’ve done well today,” he added.

Pete followed him away from the small gathering, heading up toward the few tents they still had.

Gil handed him something - a small book. He took it automatically, tilting it to the light of a nearby camp fire.

‘Cooke’s Tactics’ he read. He’d heard of it - a new book of cavalry tactics, seemed like some officers swore by it, others stuck with the old book of Poinsett’s.

“Sir?” he queried. The book in his hand was a bit tatty, dog-eared corners, creased covers. Probably spent it’s short life stuffed in saddlebags and pockets, sometimes pulled out to study.

“You be happy, joining the mounted cavalry again?” Gil asked, once they were out of earshot of the rest of the men.

“You…you mean…” He looked down at the book again, suddenly realising what it meant.

“I put in a request,” Gil answered. “We’re down on numbers, need men who know what they’re doing. Figured that was you.”

“I...Yes! Sir” Despite everything he couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I mean…”

“Wright was all for it. Said you was wasted back here, afoot. Must’ve made a decent impression on him when you was with us.”

He could hear the smile in Gil’s voice, and he felt his own heart soar. Not just because they’d be back together - he hoped they would be, anyway - but because he could go back to doing the job he loved, and actually feel like he was playing a real part in the fight again.

 

By the time the cavalry had regrouped, reorganised and were ready to move out again, numbers depleted but morale seemingly still high, Pete had learnt most of the officer’s names, and been given a small group of soldiers to command.

He found himself watching Gil, noting the changes that even a few weeks had made. He found himself oddly proud, to see that Gil had obviously taken some of what he’d said on board.

They didn’t get a huge amount of time together, and Pete tried to keep it that way - it was far easier holding down the line between rank and friendship if he could keep some sort of distance. But he had relaxed a little. Mainly because Gil was acting more like an officer, and seemed to have settled into his own place within the rank and structure he so obviously hated.

They rode out in a column, choking dust lifting from the roadway, most men with rags or bandanas tied over their faces. The wagons that were left bumping along the rutted tracks.

As always, rumours came thick and fast within the ranks. Some said they were going to take a city, others to ambush a supply train. Still more said they’d heard there would be a huge battle to the east, and once it was won they’d be heading straight for Washington.

Pete ignored them all. Talk came easy at time like these, whispers and stories building up and being embellished on.

Ahead of him he saw the column slowing, and a bugle call went up to bring them to a halt. He instinctively raised his hand, too.

Word was quickly passed back that they’d reached a river crossing. Men hitched up bed rolls and bags, some who couldn’t swim went as far as tying themselves to their saddle horns, or wrapping their reins around their arms.

Gil was one of the officers to ride back, giving instructions for the wagons to move up and cross, whilst shouting at the soldiers to clear a path.

Pete moved down, helping to urge the horses to the side of the road.

At one point he rode next to Gil, and glanced across at the other man.

“Can you swim, Sir?” he asked.

“Yeah. You?” Gil replied, taking a moment to turn and look at him.

Pete nodded. “Ain’t very good at it, but I can.”

Gil smiled. “Good. Should be easy enough, but it’s deep in the middle. Watch out for anyone getting swept down.”

Pete returned to his section, and could see a few men were nervous.

“When we get there, anyone can’t swim, you go on the upstream side, those of you who can, keep an eye out, be ready to grab anyone seems in trouble,” he called out.

The column moved slowly, following the wagons that bobbed and rocked their way across, riders with ropes leading the way, and once they were across, tethering the lines to nearby trees.

Men and horses were lost from sight as the water was splashed up, crisp and clear, despite the heat of the day.

At first it was refreshing, as the coldness seeped into his boots and soaked his legs, but it quickly became more uncomfortable as it rose waist-high.

A few times there was some sort of commotion as someone fell or a horse slipped on the rocky river bed, submerging the rider.

As Pete reached the far bank he turned to watch the rear of the column advancing, urging his own brigade up the bank and out of the way as horses scrambled up the ever-muddier bank, some slipping and panicking, only to be brought back under control by skilled riders.

A rider mid-stream disappeared under the surface, and suddenly a few more went, some staying with their animal, others swimming and splashing as their horses reared and struggled.

He also saw Gil, still working near the far side to urge others across, immediately spot the trouble and ride toward the men, horse kicking up great plumes of spray.

“A rope, give me a rope!” he shouted at one of the men who had helped the wagons cross. “Anyone who can swim, come on, there’s men in the water!”

There was some sort of a path near the river bank, although large trees and shrubs prevented easy access to the water. He urged his horse along, glimpsing through the branches wherever he could, seeing men still flailing and splashing as they were swept downstream.

He couldn’t pick Gil out, and hoped that he’d either thought better of it, and was following them down the bank, or had remained with the tail of the column.

He could hear the beat of hooves behind him, and knew they were gaining on the men in the water.

Hopefully there would be a shallow patch, some sort of ford where the men and horses could scramble free of the river.

But some of the bodies were already still, no arms flailing, no shouts. It was a stupid way to go, in the midst of war. A simple river crossing.

A couple of the men were nearing the side as the river slowly bent around, and he shouted for someone to stop and help them, to follow their progress and throw them lines, but he carried on.

Ahead of him a horse was trying and failing to drag itself up the bank, eyes wild, panic clearly setting in. He had no idea if it could be saved, but he hoped someone would stop and try.

They needed horses as badly as they needed men.

He kicked his own mount on, and finally got ahead of remaining soldiers, shouting at them to get to the shore, get to safety. The river was rockier here, boulders occasionally sticking out of it, the water a white foaming heaving mass.

A couple of the men seemed to be clinging together, and in the next clear bit of bank he dismounted, jumping from the saddle before his horse had come to a stop, held the rope loose in his hand, and threw it with all his might out into the water.

It landed with a slap, already having been soaked through from pulling the wagons across.

 

“The rope!” he shouted, hoping it would be seen before it sank or was washed out of sight and out of reach.

He slung it around his own waist as the man reached for it, and sat down, digging his heels in to the soft mud.

The pull was strong, the current tugging on the two bodies. And then it was gone again, the wet hemp slipping through cold hands, one man disappearing beneath the churning water.

He hauled the rope in as fast as he could, and remounted, urging other men onward on their own horses, telling them to spread out, to throw the ropes when they could.

He was aware of another rider by his side, going at full gallop, stood in his stirrups. He instinctively knew it was Gil.

Riding on he glimpsed the soldiers in the water again, still clinging together, and he tried to keep them within sight, whilst also looking onward for another chance to try and pull them out of the river.

As he looked back to the churning water he realised they had disappeared, and he felt panic rising in his chest as he frantically looked up and down stream for the men, trying to pick out the grey uniforms that blended far too easily with the rocks.

And then he saw them, clinging to a boulder, pressed against it with the force of the flow.

He was on the ground in a second, and knew he needed to get this right. He quickly tied a simple loop into the end of the rope, then aimed, legs spread, tensed, and threw, almost cheering to himself when the rope landed just upstream of the stricken men, quickly floating down and wrapping around them.

“The rope, grab the rope!” he shouted again. “Put it over you!”

He watched, terrified that if they gave up the hold on the rock then they’d once more be swept away, but somehow, slowly, carefully, one arm at a time he watched as one of the men slid through the loop, securing it around his chest, never letting go of the still body in his arms.

Pete thought he shouted something, but couldn’t hear the words. He guessed the meaning, as best he could.

“I’m gonna haul you in!” he yelled, and this time braced himself against an old tree stump, the rope going over his shoulder and around his back.

And suddenly there were arms around him, hands joining his on the rope, pulling, anchoring.

The rope was rough with grit and mud, cold from the water, but together they were managing it, fighting the current.

The pull was immense, the river fighting them for every inch. He could feel Gil’s breath on his neck, hot and ragged.

He was terrified they’d lose the men, lose the battle against nature.

But eventually the man was close enough to the bank to find his footing, falling to his hands and knees.

Gil scrambled forward, splashing through the water, grabbing the second man, the one who was floppy, lifeless. Dragging him backwards, feet catching in the soft mud.

The first man was finally in the shallows, coughing and retching, but alive.

Pete tied the rope firmly to the stump he’d been using as an anchor, not willing to leave anything to chance, and slid and slithered down the overgrown bank to the shoreline, splashing into the water. He helped Gil grab the unconscious man under the arms, and hauled him upwards to dry land, before they both sank down, cushioned by the long grass and soft earth, both panting for breath.

Pete reached out, touched the man’s face. Held his palm over the man’s mouth. There was nothing.

He looked at Gil, who reached out, slowly. Pulled back one of the eyelids. Gently dabbed one wet fingertip against the eyeball.

When he moved his hand away the eye stayed open. A grotesque wink.

Gil sighed, shook his head. Pushed the eyelid back down.

More men scrambled down the bank, dragging their still-coughing comrade forward, to safety.

And then they were alone. A dead man at their feet.

When he looked up Gil was staring at him, his eyes bright, splashes of water still running down his face in glinting droplets like tears.

He couldn’t help but stare back. The moment stretching, neither speaking, neither moving.

Finally Gil looked away, down at the body.

“Get a few men. Have him spaded in,” Gil finally said.

Pete nodded. Moving, climbing the bank, fingers digging into mud, grabbing clumps of grass to help pull himself up.

There were men at the top of the bank, and he called a few over, softly gave them the orders. Glanced back to where Gil still stood over the body.

The men worked silently, guns neatly stacked, packs dropped at the top of the bank, before moving to the body.

Gil gave a final shake of his head, then climbed back up to Pete, glancing back once more as the group began to drag the body away from the water.

 

The silence stretched as they both mounted up, turning their horses back and retracing the way along the banks of the river.

Gil slowed, reaching for his tobacco, cursing when the papers were wet.

“Here.” Pete held out his own pouch. “Need to…need to stop and fill my canteen, anyway.”

They slowed by a rocky patch, water swirling between boulders.

Pete sat on a rock, reaching down, filling his canteen with the cool water.

Gil had rolled a cigarette, the gentle smell of smoke wafting across to Pete. He sat, too, and after a moment held out the cigarette.

Pete took it, filling his lungs, holding it for a few seconds before breathing out again.

“You done well,” Gil said. Uncorking his own canteen, leaning forward to fill it.

They were close. The same drifting wisps of smoke entwining them.

As Gil sat back up Pete reached out, hesitant, slow.

And Gil’s gaze locked with his own, unmoving, as if time had frozen.

He finally let his hand trail over Gil’s cheek, moving slowly, gently, reaching with his thumb to swipe over the slight pinkness of a scar under Gil’s eye.

Gil let out a long breath of smoke, swirling, obscuring his face for a moment. But as it cleared his eyes were still on Pete.

 

It was wrong, Pete knew that. Heard of men who’d been thrown out of the army for it, thrown out and shunned by their own friends, families.

But there was something about the man in front of him, more than the handsome face, the strong jaw. More than the deep blue eyes that held both sadness and strength. More than the smile - the one that was difficult to coax into being, but full of warmth when you managed it.

And suddenly cold fingers were wrapping around his wrist, strong, firm, and his instinct was to pull away, but the grip just tightened slightly. Not moving. Holding his hand still, and for a second Gil seemed to be leaning into the touch, eyes flickering closed, before he slowly turned his head, eyes locked on Pete’s own, and pressed a simple, closed-lipped kiss onto Pete’s palm.

 

Pete could forget the war, forget the men who would surely come looking for them, almost forget how wrong what he was doing was. All that mattered was the two of them, and the beating sun warming them through, and the sweet smell of crushed grass beside them.

Gil let go of his wrist. He slowly pulled his hand back, fingers closed in a loose fist, as if that would keep the gentle kiss safe.

“I…I’m sorry,” he finally said. “That we didn’t…save him.”

Gil gave a shake of his head. “Don’t know it makes a difference. Fighting, drowning, illness…”

Pete nodded. It probably hadn’t. But sometimes death on such a small scale, in the midst of the war, stood out that much more starkly.

 

He let his gaze roam over Gil’s face. Glad that something had brought them together. Something bigger than the army, the war. Something that meant he’d been given the choice to stop the angry young man in front of him destroy himself and his career.

Now there was another choice to make. One that could destroy both of them.

He could feel the tension between them, was aware of Gil’s gaze upon him, and wanted nothing more than to close the gap, feel the press of soft lips on his own.

It scared him, the pull, the urge, like nothing he’d ever felt before. Not with the women he’d stepped out with, not with a saloon girl, and definitely not with another man.

Then there was the steady beat of hooves on the path above them, and Gil glanced up, the moment gone, the tension broken. Pete could have kicked himself.

He slowly stood, and they made their way back to the horses.

As they rode on he glanced at Gil. Hoping that whatever was happening between them meant something. And at the same time wishing he could stop feeling it, because surely it wasn’t right.


	6. Chapter 6

He found himself walking the perimeter of the camp that night, staring out into the darkness, a thin quirley between his lips.

His boots were quiet through the grass, and he heard someone approaching, and knew who it must be. He turned and saluted, casting a look back toward camp as he did so. He knew there would be some people watching. Not much went unnoticed, not in the army.

“Wanted to thank you.” Gil said, voice soft.

“I…anyone would’ve done it, Sir” he answered automatically, relaxing.

“No, they wouldn’t,” Gil gave a jerk of his head. “Walk?”

Pete nodded and fell into step.

First they walked past the horses, lined up in their rows. The distinctive sweet smell of greenery and hay floating over to them.

“How you getting on,” Gil gestured to them. “Yours okay?”

Pete nodded. “Good animal. Knows what he’s doing.”

“Seems you do, too. Throwing out that lariat.” There was a hint of interest, a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, well, when I was a kid we’d play at being cowboys sometimes,” Pete smiled. “Throwing out ropes. I got quite good, ropin’ tricks, ridin’ tricks, the like.”

“Figure you might take to it, after this?” Gil asked. “Or…?”

He shrugged. Imagined leaving the army, going someplace out on the frontier, away from rank and orders and questions. “Don’t know. Maybe…Maybe after all this.”

He hoped Gil might say something - some crazy thing, like they should go off together, go and start new lives, maybe get a ranch together.

But there was nothing, silence.

They were still walking, into the darkness, away from prying eyes, past the horses, the tents, past the fire the blacksmith kept going, down into the inky blackness of the grassland.

Pete couldn’t help but follow, hoping, excited, scared, not knowing what they were doing, but doing it all the same.

Finally Gil stopped, glanced back at the camp, now only visible because firelight touched on the trees around it. No one looking out would ever see them. Not now.

He waited, his breathing shallow, silent, too scared to break the spell.

Then Gil’s hand was on him, gentle, touching his forearm, tracing up, over his shoulder, fingers barely touching, onto his skin, his neck, over the roughness of his evening stubble, tipping his head back, just slightly.

And there was the heat of breath on his skin, a moment, a pause, and the gentle press of lips against his.

He swallowed, not knowing what to do, wanting to grab and hold but stopping himself, following the lead, keeping his movements slow. He kissed back, lips parting, feeling the unfamiliar coarse stubble, hot breath, the gentle flick of soft tongue over his lips.

Somehow his own hands were resting on Gil’s chest, fingertips dragging over buttons, over rough, cheap cloth.

“This ain’t right,” he finally said, words barely formed on his breath, their faces still together, noses bumping, lips grazing Gil’s as he spoke.

“I know,” was Gil’s simple answer, followed by another kiss, an arm sliding around his waist, pulling him in tighter.

And he couldn’t really remember why it was wrong anymore.

He let his hands settle on Gil’s waist, fingers finding and easing into the gap between shell jacket and pants, finding the softer undershirt, tracing along the waistband, all the time pressing kisses on Gil’s lips, his jaw, both their breathing pick up as Gil’s hand slid down, brushing lightly over his crotch, as if testing, questioning, checking he wouldn’t be pushed away.

“Done this…before?” Pete asked, wanted to fall into the grass, to pull Gil down with him, to rip buttons from fabric.

“Not here.”

Not here. Someplace else, though. With someone else.

Gil’s lips dragged over his cheek, tongue and teeth scraping over his neck. The pressure on his cock increased as Gil’s hand cupped him through his pants, gently squeezing, the touch at odds with their harsh breathing, the urgency he felt.

He tentatively moved his own hand down, brushing his knuckles over the obvious hardness, feeling the jump of flesh, a slight hitch in Gil’s breath on his neck.

Then his eyes fell on the camp.

He took a breath and stepped backwards. “We can’t…if someone…we can’t do this here,” he glanced up to the camp again, as if someone would be heading for them at any moment.

“No one’s going to be out this far,” Gil’s voice was soft, and his hand hovered between them, palm open.

“No…I…” Pete was torn. He wanted to, he almost couldn’t stop his hands reaching out for the warmth and solidity of Gil’s body, to pull him close and hold him tight. 

“This is my life,” he finally said. “I can’t…I can’t”

Gil’s head dropped, hand pulled away, tucked back in waistband.

“Sure.”

“Don’t…” Pete wanted to reach out, but he didn’t want to give the wrong impression. “It ain’t that I don’t want this,” he finally said, stepping backwards, moving away. “Don’t think that.”

“Sure.” Gil wouldn’t look at him.

He opened his mouth a few more times, searching for words to fix the situation, to put the smile back on Gil’s face. But he couldn’t think of anything else he could say. So he turned, walked slowly back to camp, and didn’t look back.

He sat by the fire, turning over the well worn pages of the small book Gil had given him. Smiling at the smudges and dirty fingerprints. Wondering if Gil had taken to reading it before or after the fight, and the talk Pete had given him. Wondering how hard Gil had argued to get him back in a mounted brigade.

 

The next few days were tough - they covered a lot of miles, only stopping to eat and sleep. By the time the animals were dealt with at the end of the day Pete barely cared what food he had before joining other weary men, kicking out their bedrolls under the stars and sleeping until the bugle call woke them before dawn.

He saw Gil sometimes. Heard him more often, the distinctive voice shouting orders. He also heard the rumours, how Lieutenant Favor was an asshole, being too hard on everyone. Like someone had made him God.

Pete was pretty sure Gil felt far from God-like. Was pretty sure he was just a young kid, confused and hurting and lashing out. Using those very same rules and regulations Pete had tried to get him to abide by to hide behind, instead.

He was certainly getting noticed, though. Pete heard the odd grudging remark about how the kid might just have it in him to be an officer, and he couldn’t help but smile. He could see it, and now others could, too. The hard edge, the practical mind. Gil was harsh, but mainly fair, and slowly the men were accepting him as an officer, not just a kid who got lucky. Or unlucky.

It did surprise Pete, when they reached their destination, that a lot of troops were already mustering.

Artillery, infantry, cavalry, all camped, all waiting.

And on the horizon, the gentle haze of campfires of another army, waiting, preparing. He felt the excitement building.

Excitement, fear, worry. 

The men prepared, guns cleaned, bags re-packed, ammunition checked. Some wrote letters. A preacher held a service, calling on God to support their cause, to protect them.

Pete went to it, watching the man at the front. Crossing himself. Praying for himself, for Gil, for all of them. He wasn’t sure if it would do any good, but he couldn’t see it would do any harm, either.

He noticed Gil wasn’t there.

 

They rode drill all afternoon, and the tension in the air was thick. Gil was further down the field, and Pete occasionally heard him shouting, saw him galloping past.

He hoped they’d get a moment, some way he could speak to Gil before the battle. There was too much unsaid, too much left hanging, no resolution.

That evening he held the small book tight in his hands as he walked up to the officer’s tents. He slowed as he approached them, glancing around, wishing there was some way he could figure out which was Gil’s.

“Yes?” a voice called to him.

He snapped a salute. “Major Wright, I’m looking for Lieutenant Favor, Sir.”

“Ah, not here, Corporal. Can I help?”

Pete smiled. He liked Wright. He a decent man, a good officer, didn’t care to stand on pomp and ceremony. He was probably, Pete thought, the reason Gil had kept his rank.

“I was going to return a book to him, Sir,” Pete held it up.

“Ah. I’ll see he gets it,” Wright reached out and took the book. “Cooke’s, eh? Poinsett’s man, myself.”

“Lieutenant Favor thought it would be helpful, Sir,” Pete answered. “As I’d been afoot for some time.”

“Good, good,” Wright nodded.

“Can I…Will he be gone long, Sir?” Pete asked. “Only, I wanted to thank him, too.”

Wright smiled. “Out scouting the enemy, should be back tonight, by daybreak, latest, or he’ll find himself on the wrong end of our guns.”

Pete swallowed and nodded. It would be tomorrow, then.

The waiting was the worst part. And it was nearly over.

 

He didn’t sleep much, hoping to hear the noise of a patrol returning, the hoofbeats, the snorting animals. It never came.

They could have been captured. Could have been killed. Cheated out of one last battle. Picked off by rifles, or taken prisoner. He didn’t know which would be worse.

 

As dawn broke he saw the dust from approaching horses, but he was too busy preparing himself and his men to have time to see if it were Gil.

And before he knew it they were riding out, most kit left behind, sabres and guns sharpened and oiled, hands too tight on the reins, muscles tense. Ready.

He knew the odds. Knew that officers were twice as likely to die than enlisted men. Knew the uniforms meant they’d be picked off by the crack shots of the enemy, trying to spread disarray in the ranks.

“Keep tight, keep tight,” he called to his men.

The guns ahead of them started, the percussion of the shells and shot both heard and felt.

He hoped they’d be some use at taking out the enemy artillery. Hoped that by the time they were on the battlefield he wouldn’t watch men and horses be mown down by canister and shot.

Hoped that Gil’s scouting party had brought back good, solid information.

 

They stopped behind a ridge. The artillery were just the other side, and the whine and shriek of projectiles filled the air - both being fired, and landing. Sometimes a plume of earth would go up, and men and horses would nervously move and fidget.

“Hold your places,” he called, as others shouted out their own orders.

And then, finally, the bugles sounded, and along with the thousands of others, he charged. The guns behind them falling silent, the guns ahead seeming to redouble their efforts.

Hoofbeats thundered all around him, the whoops and shouts of men filling the air.

Some men shot wildly, others rode with their swords raised, and as they approached the enemy lines they wailed like banshees.

The area was thick with smoke, and he could barely make out the enemy, let alone pick a single target, so they all just rode on, screaming and firing, hoping to make their mark.

Men fell, tumbling from the saddle and being swallowed by the charging animals behind them. Others clung on, despite injuries, as their horses continued the mad flight across the open ground.

Finally they were across. Slashing and stabbing and firing, the wall of noise hitting them, everything from screams and shouts to musket and pistol fire.

He swept down with his blade, pulling it free before slashing again, kicking out to push men back as they tried to drag him from the saddle.

The guns began to fall silent, as he knew his fellow soldiers would be fighting to not only stop their destructive firing, but also to capture them, to turn them onto their current owners.

All he could think was to hack and chop and occasionally pull his pistol and fire it at a man.

A bayonet snagged into his boot and he lunged for the man holding it, smashing down with his own blade.

They were still advancing, slowly, but surely, pushing the enemy backward. Some of them were already turning and fleeing for the trees, hoping the woodland would offer them some safety.

Around him his own side were arriving on foot, more and more men pouring into the fight with musket, rifle and bayonet, knives and fists, even turning their guns and using the stocks to beat and bludgeon.

He and his fellow cavalrymen were soon all but useless in the main fight, as they reached the trees and the horses struggled to move through.

The bugle call went up to dismount, and somehow they managed to organise themselves, a man for the horses, the rest of them fighting on, firing and shouting and screaming, punching and kicking as the battle became a brawl.

Men in blue were turning and running, the day lost, now each thinking of himself.

He panted, coughing at the thick smoke, giving some chase before stopping, his hands on his knees, watching them flee.

He wasn’t sure if they’d been fighting for hours or minutes, as his muscles shook, breath ragged in his lungs.

 

Then he saw it, through the haze.

By the now-captured guns, an officer mounting up, yellow flashes just visible on his uniform. Mounting and kicking his weary horse to a gallop, setting off in pursuit, quickly disappearing into the trees.

“No…you…” Pete knew there was no point. Knew his shout wouldn’t be heard. He just turned and ran.

He threw himself onto his own horse, pulling on the reins and kicking it into action. It was a good animal, jumping the fallen bodies in its path, sure-footed as he turned into the trees, keeping low in his saddle, knowing there would be men who would love one more shot, one more kill, before the end of the day.

Up ahead he could see Gil - it had to be Gil, he was sure - still galloping, but now with a pistol in hand.

He wasn’t gaining. But nor could he turn back. He knew whatever happened, he couldn’t leave Gil alone, out here, so far behind the enemy lines.

Wagons came into view, with more soldiers, and as Gil fired at them they scattered, some occasionally turning to fire back, mostly in a panic, not even aiming. But he saw Gil flinch at something, and he pulled out his own pistol, not caring it was nearly useless this far away and aimed at a gallop.

It had the desired effect of the men scattering further, and he watched as Gil seemed to sag in his saddle, and for a moment his heart was in his mouth, terrified he would see Gil fall.

Instead it seemed that he’d grabbed the tracers, and was dragging the animals with him, their pace slow at first, as the heavily loaded wagons began to move, urging them onward, shouting at them, finally grabbing their own reins and whipping their hindquarters.

Pete skidded to a stop, still aiming at the fleeing men, letting off another couple of rounds, in case any of them decided to take a stand.

“You’re mad!” he shouted, but even as he did so he reached out for the harness, urging the horses on.

“Go back,” Gil shouted, as he turned away, kicking his weary animal on to the second wagon.

Pete ignored him, but did keep pulling on the team’s reins, the wagon jangling and bouncing behind them as they picked up speed.

 

Then there was a distinctive whistle above them.

“SHELL!” he screamed, hoping Gil had heard it to, letting go of the harness to look behind him, to where Gil was heaving on the other wagon, trying to force the team to haul it.

The explosion was close, but beyond them, in the trees.

Pete realised it was their own side - obviously thinking no one had followed the retreating army, they had turned the guns on them.

He gave another yell and whipped the horses again, watching as they headed back the way he and Gil had come, hoping someone else would appear to help.

Gil had finally got the other wagon moving, so Pete redoubled his efforts, finally reaching the trees again, and the track the artillery had obviously used for the guns. It was rough ground, but the horses strained and pulled and the wagons squealed and groaned.

He knew that having captured the guns, they also needed the rounds, but he also knew the dangers of being so close to so much gunpowder.

More shells and shot were screaming overhead, punching holes in the drifting smoke.

He glanced back at the exact moment a round exploded, Gil and his horse disappearing in the smoke and earth and gout of flames, the team he had been leading rearing up in panic, eyes wide, nostrils flared.

“No!”

He turned, his horse dancing under him.

The teams kept moving, terrified, hooves digging into the dirt, desperate to escape. And now there was only one way to go - down the track, toward the confederate lines.

Pete squinted into the smoke, coughing and shouting, until he saw Gil, crumpled on his side on the grass.


	7. Chapter 7

His legs almost gave way beneath him as he threw himself out of the saddle, taking a few steps before dropping to his knees.

He grabbed Gil by the shoulders, shaking him.

And there was a groan.

He almost sobbed with relief.

“Gil, Sir,” he slowly rolled him, ending up almost cradling him on his lap, fingers gripping the front of Gil’s tunic, buttons straining as he pulled him closer.

“Pete.”

There was a moment of confusion, a brief grimace, then Gil moved and wiped his hand over his face, reaching up and gently touching somewhere on the side of his head.

Another shell whistled over them.

“We got to get out of here,” Pete said, urgently. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gil moved, a gasp of breath punctuating the action, rolling onto his knees, and Pete crouched by him, arms around him.

“Come on,” he pulled on Gil’s shoulders. “At least into the woodland, come on.”

Somehow Gil stumbled to his feet, and Pete grabbed hold of him tightly around his waist, steering him, trying to hold him up.

The floor of the woods was soft with rotting leaves, the sun barely penetrating the thick canopy of green. Where it broke through the shafts of light were picked up by the hazy smoke, each one as if heaven had opened up a doorway for the lost souls of the battle.

Pete staggered on, and felt the heavy weight of Gil’s arm landing around his shoulders, fingers gripping into him.

They couldn’t go on forever - both their horses gone, panicked and fleeing with the wagons. No training strong enough to break their need to be in herd.

Pete finally picked a decent looking spot, dense undergrowth around them, off any tracks, and sank down, trying to help Gil land as gently as possible.

“You idiot,” he said softly, as Gil’s eyes slid closed. “Look at you.”

He carefully ran his hands through Gil’s hair, finding the lump he probably got from hitting the ground. Gil groaned a little, tried to flinch away.

“Easy, easy,” he soothed. “You ain’t got enough people trying to kill you? You got to keep trying yourself?”

He managed to pull Gil up so he was half leaning back against Pete’s own chest, and wrapped his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Pete.” The word was barely there, but he saw Gil’s lips moving, saw the pink tongue swiping over them.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirmed. “I got you. God knows what I’m going to do with you, but I got you.”

Gil’s hand found Pete’s own, squeezing it, tangling their fingers together.

“Shouldn’t’ve followed me,” Gil said, eyes still closed, but voice stronger.

“Thought you were…thought you were on some damn fool suicide mission,” Pete found a laugh somehow bubbling up from inside him. Completely at odds with how he felt. Symptom of the strain and now relief the day had brought.

“Maybe I was.” It was barely a murmur.

And the coldness inside him was back, the feeling like his lungs couldn’t drag in any air, like somewhere in his chest his heart was clenched tight, no longer beating.

“Don’t,” he said, throat tight. “Don’t say that.”

Gil gave a small huff of breath, like a laugh, and Pete shook him, fists gripping his uniform.

“Don’t say that!” He repeated. “You can’t…”

He wrapped his arms around Gil more tightly, pulling him in close, dipping his head to rest his chin on Gil’s shoulder. As if somehow he could keep him safe, from the war - from himself.

“It ain’t God’s will to go like that,” he muttered. “You’d end up in hell. I won’t…let you,” he finished, softly.

“‘M in hell now,” Gil answered. “All I’d end up is dead.”

Pete shook his head, unable to articulate the fear that years of sitting in church had put in him.

“I don’t want you dead,” he finally said.

There was a long silence, punctuated by the sound of exploding shell, although more sporadic now.

“You’re about the only one,” Gil eventually murmured.

“I’m not,” Pete answered, almost too quickly.

“I ain’t that popular. Not since I took your advice,” Gil answered, softly.

Pete couldn’t help but smile himself. “Officers ain’t put on this earth to be popular.”

And finally Gil stroked over his leg, then reached up again, covering his hand where it was still twisted up in Gil’s jacket.

“I’m sorry,” Gil said. And somehow the words encompassed so much.

He shook his head, wanting to say it was okay, wanting to say he didn’t mind. But not meaning either of those things.

“You can’t…I thought we were…and you’d just…I didn’t walk away the other night ‘cause I didn’t want it. I did it because I can’t risk it. You might hate the army, you mightn’t care what gets said about you, but I do. I got a career. My Pa would…This is everything, to me, my job, my family, my life.”

“I know.” Gil shifted in his grip, turning his head, trying to look at him. “All I could think was…this war, this army, it’s took everything I had from me. And it was going to take you too.”

Pete sighed, pressing his face against Gil’s cheek. Rough stubble catching on his lips. And he remembered Gil hadn’t slept the night before, and as tired as he felt, now the urgency and fear had worn off, Gil must be feeling worse.

“It ain’t going to take me,” he said. “And it’s what brought us together, ain’t it?”

He moved, then, gently laying Gil down, propping himself up on his elbow, looking at the dirt and sweat and blood on Gil’s face, and seeing only the handsome, scared, kid beneath it all.

He leaned in for a kiss, slow and long, not moving, just pressing their lips together and breathing in the same air, as if somehow it would re-affirm their lives and their bond.

“Guess it did.”

Gil’s lips barely moved against his, and the words were more of a rumble deep inside him.

“You hurt anywhere?” Gil asked, one arm loosely holding Pete close.

He thought for a moment, then flexed his right foot, feeling a sting of pain.

He reached down, pulling up the leg of his pants, seeing the short but deep slice through his calf.

“Bayonet,” he said, in answer to the question Gil hadn’t asked. “Ain’t too bad.”

“Still.”

Gil had tugged the bandana free from his neck, and was holding it out.

Pete took it, wrapping it neatly around his leg, knotting it firmly.

“Thanks. You okay? ‘Cept the head?”

Gil gave a half-shrug, then a slight smile. “Just jarred my shoulder some, it ain’t nothing serious.”

Pete hesitated, then reached out, unbuttoning Gil’s jacket, sliding his hand inside, gently rubbing over the muscles of his shoulder.

Gil flinched a little at one point, so Pete stopped, just holding his hand there, feeling the warmth of Gil’s skin.

“Think those wagons got to the boys taking the guns?” he asked, settling again, hand still inside Gil’s top, still gently rubbing over the shoulder.

“Hope so.” Gil’s arm had settled back around him, a gentle hold, comforting, comfortable.

He glanced around every now and again, checking their surroundings, but even the gunfire had stopped now. They were far enough away from the captured artillery that even if the Blues did send back some soldiers to try to recover it, they wouldn’t get caught up in it.

Gil’s eyes were closed, but Pete didn’t think he was asleep.

The sun began to set, and he shifted, sitting up.

Gil’s hand trailed around his waist, down his back, still gently resting against him.

“Should move soon,” Pete said, softly.

“Don’t,” Gil answered. “Not yet.”

Pete turned back to look at him. The softness in his gaze, with a hint of hope, of promise.

He supposed he couldn’t complain now. Their own side probably thought they were dead. No one would be looking for them.

Gil’s hand caught the front of his tunic, gently pulling him down. And he went, ending up half lying on top of Gil, kissing again, a gentle brush of lips, open, inviting.

He slid his palm on Gil’s cheek, guiding, caressing, feeling the first flick of tongue tracing over his top lip. Nothing demanding, just soft and gentle and slow.

Then Gil’s leg nudged into his, pushing against him, until finally he lifted his own leg and put it between Gil’s, rolling a little more of his weight over, pressing himself against Gil’s hip, unable to hold back from giving a little wiggle, little rolls of his hips, just to get himself comfortable.

Gil’s hand rested on his waist, fingers digging into his buttock, moving to set up a slight rocking, encouraging him to thrust.

It was ridiculous. In a war, in enemy territory, and here they were. He didn’t know if he was making a mistake. He didn’t know if he’d ever live long enough to care. He just knew he needed it.

Maybe they both did.

He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, tongues sliding against each other, and his hand moving up, fingers tangling in Gil’s hair, holding him, pressing down onto him, knowing he couldn’t stop now, no way.

Then he felt Gil’s fingers sliding around his waistband, dipping inside. Too many long marches and too little to eat meant there was space, and Pete lifted his hips a little, allowing Gil to slid his hand between them, and finally long, cool fingers were exploring, stroking over his foreskin, tracing his length, before wrapping around him, just tight enough, thumb sliding over his tip. He made a noise, and Gil kissed him harder, swallowing it down, silencing him.

The only noise around them was the slight rustle of leaves, their own panted breath, and the odd moan he just couldn’t help.

He was pushing into the tight heat of Gil’s grip, trying and failing to control the tempo, and in the end he had to give up, had to let Gil do whatever he wanted, wringing the pleasure out of him. He couldn’t breath hard enough, so he broke the kiss, instead panting against Gil’s collar, smelling the sweat on Gil’s skin, the earthy decay of the forest floor, and the smoke and gunpowder of the battle.

He choked back a sound as he felt the tight, sweet heat build inside him, wishing it was more than a hand he was thrusting into, more than a moment grabbed in the darkness.

Finally he came, burying his face in Gil’s neck, panting out half formed sounds as shook, the first few spurts causing a delicious slick slide that he wanted more of, even when he was so sensitive he almost shied away from the touch.

And Gil was breathing into his hair whispering meaningless sounds. Shifting his other arm, even though it obviously hurt, to wrap around him, hold him close.

The hand down his pants moved away, disappearing for a second before resting on his back, stroking, long and soothing instead of hard and fast.

“I’ve never…” he started, then realised it didn’t matter. They were here, now.

Gil pressed a kiss to his ear, and shifted slightly beneath him.

Pete felt the obvious hardness against his hip.

“I…you…” he reached down, careful, tentative.

Gil stayed still, let him explore. Let him run his fingers over the hard length. Feel the twitch as he stroked over a sensitive part.

“You want me to…” he started.

“Yeah,” Gil’s answer was quiet, not commanding, just agreeing.

He undid the buttons on Gil’s pants, found the tie to his underwear and tugged it free, then slid his fingers down, carefully.

It felt like his own, but unfamiliar in girth and size. He flattened his palm, rubbing smooth strokes down to Gil’s balls, already drawn up, tight, ready. He wondered if that was just because of him.

The position was awkward, his hand half trapped under his own hip, so he shifted, laying beside Gil, kissing him. Then had a thought, and reached into his own pants, adjusting himself and swiping his hand through the mess in his own underwear before sliding it back into Gil’s.

Gil moaned into his mouth, and he took it as encouragement, setting up a rhythm, not too fast, not too tight. Helped by the slipperiness of his own release.

He could feel the flex of Gil’s hips, as they were pressed together from shoulder to knee, felt the hitch in his breath, the jump of abdomen beneath his arm.

Gil’s fingers were digging into his back, holding him more tightly, and Pete knew he had to be close, knew he was the cause, and he had the power and all he wanted was for Gil to feel the same release he just had.

And then there was a burst of heat and wet and a stutter in Gil’s hips. He slowed, but kept stroking, long and smooth with just the hint of squeeze at the end, until Gil’s own hand landed on his, stilling his movements, both of them panting for breath.

He finally moved, resting his head on Gil’s shoulder, reaching behind him to wipe his hand in the dirt, then on his own trousers.

Gil’s arm was still tight around him.

“We should go back,” he finally said, breathing more even, limbs heavy, sleep threatening.

“Yeah.”

Gil didn’t move.

“They’ll think we’re dead,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Let ‘em think it,” Gil answered, lips brushing his forehead.

He finally shook his head. It might be nice, imagining a world where they could escape the war, escape the fight, just the two of them. But it wasn’t possible.

“We got to go back,” he repeated.

“Could run,” Gil answered. “Get away someplace. Mexico.”

Pete shook his head. “My folks…You mightn’t have no one waiting on news, but I do. My Ma and Pa, family.”

Gil took a deep breath, blew it out again, ruffling Pete’s hair.

“Family would probably throw a party,” he said, words lazy, mumbled. “Another Reb dead, another step closer to winning.”

Pete frowned, then pushed himself up onto his elbow.

“Your family are Blues?”

He felt rather than saw Gil shaking his head. “I ain’t got real family. My wife’s, they’re Unionists. Out in Philadelphia. Bringing up my girls to think their daddy’s a traitor, an’ worse.”

Pete swallowed, his mouth dry, all of the relaxed sleepiness fleeing from his mind. “Your…wife?”

He felt Gil tense, and pushed himself up, moving away, tucking his shirt back in and sitting up, his back to Gil.

A tentative hand slid onto his shoulder. “I…it ain’t…”

“You’re married!” He shrugged the hand off. “You think you can just…you got kids? And you’d do this? Do…with me?”

“Pete, it ain’t….” The hand didn’t return, and Pete could only imagine that behind him Gil was getting dressed too. Fixing himself up, so no one would ever know.

“How can you…” he shook his head.

Marriage, in his book, was something not to be messed with. You didn’t so much as look at another man’s wife, not if you knew what was good for you.

Another woman’s husband… he figured it was all the same. Except they didn’t talk about that, in church. But marriage was blessed, a union before God, and he felt as if he’d been lied to, cheated.

“I didn’t mean for…” Gil’s voice was soft, apologetic.

“For me to find out?” He said the words harshly, and regretted them.

“No…I…I should’ve told you. Should’ve…but it don’t change things, not now. Not between us. Does it?”

Pete rubbed his hands over his face. Smelling the dirt, the gunpowder. The essence of Gil’s release, all over them. He sighed.

“Marriage is…It’s…” Once again he couldn’t articulate it. Couldn’t explain why it made what they were doing even more wrong, just knew, deep inside him, that it was.

“Strong as you might think it is,” Gil answered, voice sounding strained. “Much as you might think it’s God’s will, and his work, believe me, it ain’t half as strong as the will of them in charge, them that started this war. I sent them north, my girls, because I didn’t want to leave ‘em to fend for themselves, back in Texas. And first I heard of them getting there safe was her father, telling me that if I fought for my home, my country, then I was giving them up for good.”

There was a bitterness, an anger.

And he realised that when Gil said the war had taken everything he had he didn’t just mean land, or his job, or even his home. He meant his marriage, his children, his entire life.

He shook his head. Remembered the words he’d heard in the small chapels, as officers married sweethearts, as the kids he’d grown up with got wed. Marriage meant couples were joined by God. Let no man put asunder. He’d never have imagined he could play a part in destroying such a partnership. Never imagined he could be that man.

He heard Gil scuffing around, guessed he’d stood up.

“Come on, then,” the voice came, cold, hard.

Pete stood, brushed himself down.

He reached out, found Gil’s arm, the braid on his sleeve.

He’d also heard the preacher say you should never kill an innocent man. Never take a life.

And look at him now.

“I…I was surprised, is all,” he finally said. “I thought…when you said you’d done this before…”

Gil gave a grunt. “Was a cowhand long time ‘fore I got wed,” he finally answered. “You do stuff. Learn stuff. Gets mighty lonely.”

Pete nodded, keeping a hold of Gil’s sleeve, following him, both of them moving slowly, carefully, trying not to trip or fall as they made their way through the dark woodland, branches and twigs catching them, scratching them, tugging on their clothes.

He couldn’t help but think of all the other men he’d known. The ones who’d left wives and children behind in garrisons. Some of them had relished the fight. Some of them had longed for home. He wondered how many more had never spoken of unhappy marriages, how many of them had been glad to leave.

How many of them had found comfort in each other’s arms.

They walked for a while, picking their way through the battlefield, the pale moonlight offering just enough light to avoid most of the bodies. Men. Horses. Scattered over the land.

And maybe, just maybe, what they had was more important than all his bible classes, all his hours sat on hard pews and sweltering tents. Because what they had was here, and now, and somehow happening despite everything around them.

Love was pure. But was that what he was feeling? Was it what Gil was? Or was it just the sin of lust, blinding him, leading him astray.

He could see lights, in the distance. Torches and fires, men collecting the dead and wounded.

He slid his hand into Gil’s, squeezing.

“You should’ve told me, sooner,” he said, softly. “But…no, it don’t change anything. Does it?”

Gil stopped, and turned, eyes wide, surprised.

“You don’t…mind?”

Pete gave a shrug. “Maybe. A bit. But…I ain’t giving this up. Not if you don’t want to.”

Gil shook his head, expression serious. “I don’t.”

As they walked closer their hands parted, and finally they were noticed.

“Stop! Who is it?” Came a voice, and there was the glint of a muzzle in the darkness.

“Lieutenant Favor, Corporal Nolan,” Gil called out.

“Advance,” the voice replied.

They walked forward, arms held wide, away from their weapons.

“Sir!” The man snapped to attention as soon as they were close enough. “Sir Major Wright did ask about you, Sir. I’m sure he’d be glad if you would report to him, Sir.”

Gil returned the salute, then nodded. “Sure. Stand easy.”

“Stick with me,” Gil said to Pete, as they walked into camp, the odd person still awake and noticing them coming to attention as Gil walked past.

Finally they reached the tents, and Pete was sure he’d be asleep on his feet if they had to wait too long.

Luckily the sentry on duty announced Gil’s presence immediately, and they ducked into the tent, both coming to attention crisply, saluting smartly, waiting for Wright to return the gesture, which he did so, loosely, from behind his small table.

“Thought we’d lost you,” he said, glancing between them.

“No, Sir,” Gil answered. “Tried to capture some enemy rounds, Sir, for the guns. Was caught in the artillery fire.”

Wright shook his head slowly. “Was you, was it? Should have guessed. No one else damn fool enough to chase the enemy down alone.”

There was a hint of amusement, a hint of wonder. Pete almost smiled.

“Wasn’t alone, Sir. Corporal Nolan assisted me,” Gil replied.

“Did he though,” Wright nodded again. “Well you did it, God knows how. Got it all, ready to turn on those bastards. Two full limbers, and caissons. And the guns. Brave, Favor. And lucky, damn you, and lucky.”

“Yes, Sir,” Gil nodded, and Pete could almost sense the smile tugging at his lips.

“Need the doctor? Your animals came back, yours was jumpy. Got a nasty wound, been seen to, though. Can’t lose a good animal.”

“Corporal Nolan’s received a leg wound, Sir. But no other injuries.”

Wright nodded slowly. “Go on then,” he waved them away, before Pete could think of a way to cut in and explain that Gil had been knocked out from the fall.

Gil crowded him out of the tent, almost walking into him.

“And Favor,” Wright called out. Pete kept walking, assuming he wasn’t wanted any more.

“Sir?” he heard Gil answer.

“Don’t do anything so damned stupid again.”

“Sir.”

Pete noticed there was no agreement, just the minimum that etiquette required. He smiled to himself.

 

Halfway down the grassy pathway Gil caught him up, and a gentle hand on his lower back steered him toward another tent.

“This way, Corporal,” he said, just loudly enough for any eavesdroppers. “Need to get that leg sorted, like Major Wright said.”

Pete allowed himself to be guided, even though Wright had said no such thing. They ended up in the tent that was full of the boxes and paperwork and ledgers once more, and in the gloom inside it Gil slid a hand up Pete’s cheek, and just looked at him, eyes searching.

Pete just gave a nod, not even sure what he was agreeing to.

“Stay with me?” Gil asked. “No one’ll bother us, not here.”

Pete wanted to refuse, wanted to leave. But somehow he couldn’t.

Gil produced a single bed roll, kicking it out in the cramped space, then picked up his canteen, drinking deeply before wiping his sleeve across his mouth and offering it to Pete.

Pete drank too, only realising how thirsty he was when the water filled his mouth. He savoured it, a few long gulps, then handed the canteen back.

Come daylight he’d need to find his own kit again. But for now…

Gil was removing his belt, his sword, jacket, leaving on just a thin, cheap shirt and his pants. Stretching out on the bedroll, a tall and slim figure in the gloom.

Pete followed his lead, carefully stacking his things, before settling down in the small space, his back to Gil, bodies pressed together.

The blanket was tugged over him, and Gil’s hand settled on his waist, stroking for a second before stilling.

His eyes slid shut, warm, safe, sleep rapidly claiming him.

There was a movement, the gentle caress of breath on his neck. Lips pressed to his skin.

“Next time,” Gil said, almost so softly he couldn’t hear. “I’ll suck it.”

His eyes snapped open in the darkness. 

 

He lay awake for too long. He’d heard people talk about it - but even most of the girls who sold sex didn’t do that. Soldiers around the campfire were happy to invent tall tales of the girls they’d met, though, the ones that would. Some said it was better than normal sex.

He tried to imagine it. Imagine them, in some saloon somewhere, getting a room, a real bed.

It was a fantasy, a stupid one at that. They probably wouldn’t both survive the war, let alone ever…And Gil was married. He’d go back to his family - or bring them back south, surely.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.


	8. Chapter 8

When the bugle call sounded across camp at first light he blinked awake, rubbing his eyes, and for a moment wasn’t sure where he was.

But the warmth down his back, the soft groan of someone else waking up, reminded him.

He rolled over in the tight space, and smiled at Gil, who was watching him with half-closed eyes.

“Mornin’,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

Gil smiled and kissed him back.

“Need to get up,” Pete said, despite not wanting to in the slightest.

“Yeah.” Gil answered, not moving either.

Pete grinned, threw back the blanket and began to stand up, stopping at the hiss of pain Gil gave, as his arm was dislodged from Pete’s waist.

“What?” Pete sank back to his knees.

“It’s nothing, just…shoulder must’ve cramped up some, overnight.” Gil had rolled onto his back, his other hand holding his shoulder.

Pete undid a few of the buttons of his shirt. “Here, let me.” He pushed Gil’s hand aside, rubbing his fingers over the skin. He’d seen plenty of people bust up collarbones and arms falling from the saddle, and hoped it was nothing serious enough to have Gil sent back to another unit to recover.

He found a lump on the top of Gil’s shoulder and pressed it gently, making Gil hiss with pain.

“Reckon you should take it easy. Maybe get that bound up some,” he said, uncertainly. He wasn’t sure if there was a broken bone, but didn’t want to take any chances.

“Lucky you was here to help me,” Gil grinned, his other hand tracing soft fingers over Pete’s thigh.

Pete just shook his head, smiling.

“You go an’ see if there’s a doctor free, I’ll see to the animals,” Pete said, and once he’d helped Gil on with his jacket, leaving the left sleeve hanging empty, and noting the flinches of pain.

“You should come with me, see to your leg.”

Pete shrugged. “It’s fine. Had worse.”

Gil grabbed him by the front of his jacket and planted a kiss on his forehead, before ducking out of the tent.

Pete pulled his own uniform straight, rolled up the bedding and left it next to Gil’s gun belt and sabre, then went to deal with their animals.

 

Gil returned, his arm in a sling made of what looked like a ripped-up undershirt, and shrugged at Pete’s questioning look.

“He don’t think it’s broke. Just says to rest up some.”

Pete nodded, but he worried that after their small victory over the artillery unit there wouldn’t be much rest to be had. The Blues would probably strike back, injured pride driving it more than tactics.

“Might not be so easy, Sir” he stroked his hand down his horse’s flank, checking it for injury, as it ate the feed he’d put down, aware of the other men nearby.

“Can still ride. Can still shoot.” Gil began checking his own animal, examining the injury to it’s chest, which looked to be a cut from some shrapnel, rubbing his hand over its neck, murmuring soothing words.

“They said you can ride him, Sir,” Pete said. “Just take it easy.”

Gil nodded, instinctively running his hand up and down the animal’s legs, checking for other injuries.

 

They spent the rest of the day apart, each getting on with their jobs, although Pete couldn’t push all his concerns from his mind. Time to think meant time to worry, time to reflect on how close he’d come to losing Gil before he even had him. How he hoped that Gil would be more careful, for him. For them.

And he couldn’t help but think about the whispered promise, too. Sometimes at inconvenient moments, imagining being taken into the hot, wet mouth. Remembering what others had said about the act.

As he sat in the saddle, watching over the drill, his mind wandered. He found himself wondering how the lost kid he’d first met could be a husband, a father. Wondered what his kids were like. Girls, he’d said. Tried to imagine Gil as a father, tried to imagine his girls. Were they tall? Dark haired? Or did they take after their Ma? What would she be like? Family in Philadelphia, not on the frontier. So was she from back East originally?

He shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about it, didn’t want to be.

 

That evening he walked out, away from the campfires, not wanting to listen to the battle being talked over, ever more elaborate stories being told. Walked around the camp, thinking. He visited the horses, checked on his own and Gil’s, feeling around the wound, checking for heat that would show infection was setting in. Glad when he found none.

Then his route took him up past the officer’s tents, and he couldn’t help but glance in. Hoping to see Gil. And knowing if he did it would make him miss the man all the more.

It was a nice evening, warm, the scent of plants wafting over the land, mingled with the campfire smoke.

In the tree line he saw a flash of light, the bright orange of a match. His hand went to his gun, instinctively.

Then the flame was lifted, the red of a cigarette glowing bright. He relaxed, and headed for it. Hoping he was going to find Gil, and not stumble across someone else in the darkness.

He didn’t imagine many other people would be lurking in the trees, not this close to the tents.

 

“Pete.”

He could see the waft of smoke that accompanied the word.

“Sir,” he answered, cautiously.

“There’s no-one else around.”

Pete relaxed a little, took the offered quirley and dragged the smoke into his lungs before handing it back.

“Good day?” Gil asked.

Pete nodded. No one had said anything about his absence the night before. He was sure most of them didn’t know when he’d arrived back into camp.

But now he was aware that the next night - and all those after - would be spent alone. They couldn’t risk anything else. They’d already pushed their luck.

“Been speaking to Wright,” Gil blew out smoke.

Pete just nodded.

“Says he wants new patrols. Scouting patrols.”

He slowly turned to look at Gil, wondering, hoping.

“Said I’d work with you. That you were the best. Tracking, talking to the Indians, all that.”

“And?” Pete’s heart was beating faster. Fear, anticipation, yearning.

“Said he’d give us the rest of the month. If it worked, he’d look at doing more. If it didn’t, no harm done.”

He reached out, touched Gil’s tunic, unsure what to do, unsure how to express himself.

Then he noticed something, and slid his hand up Gil’s chest, over the makeshift sling.

“You’re…” his fingers slid over the new insignia, the double-bars now sewn on to Gil’s collar.

“I said you deserved it, too,” Gil answered, almost defensively. “But…I don’t know. He wasn’t having it.”

“Because of what you did, yesterday?” Pete smiled. First Lieutenant. It didn’t give them much more freedom, but it showed Gil’s change of attitude was paying off. He didn’t care that he hadn’t been made up to sergeant, he didn’t want the extra responsibility, not now. Not yet, anyway.

“Because I’m still alive, and others ain’t,” Gil answered.

Pete was sure it was more than that. Sure that the captured weapons and ammunition had more to do with it. Sure too that Gil wouldn’t admit to that, no matter how much he pushed.

“And this?” He rubbed his hand down Gil’s upper arm, careful to avoid the shoulder.

“Better than it was.”

Pete nodded. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t worried, but the thought of being out, together, away from the camp prevented him from making more of a fuss. He didn’t want to do or say anything that might postpone that.

Gil was watching the camp, and Pete watched him. Eyes never still, slightly narrowed in the gloom. It made him look older.

Finally Gil crushed the end of the cigarette against a tree, eyes still raking over the camp.

“C’mon.” Gil jerked his head toward the woods.

Pete didn’t question it, just followed, one last glance over his own shoulder, to check they weren’t being watched.

In the darkness he found himself pulled against Gil, and kissed. Gently, slowly.

He melted into the hold, his own arms wrapping around Gil’s waist. He closed his eyes at the feel of a solid body against his, and wondered why more people didn’t do this. Or maybe they did, and were as careful as he and Gil were.

Gil’s hand slid down his side, rested on his waistband for a moment, then continued, rubbing across the front of his trousers, finding the hardness, fingernails scratching on rough fabric sending shivers of pleasure through him.

The breathy words of the night before came back to him, and he dared to hope.

He was pushed backward, taking uncertain steps until his back hit the wide trunk of a tree.

Then Gil pulled on the buttons of his waistband, opening them, easing the pressure on his cock. Leaning into him, keeping him trapped between the rough bark and the deepening kisses that tasted of harsh tobacco and coffee.

He reached for Gil’s own pants, but his hands were ignored, and Gil stepped back, still leaning in for kisses, and slid downward to his knees, hand dragging over Pete’s jacket, over the bulge in his underwear.

Pete swallowed, leaning his head back, licking his lips in anticipation.

Gil’s hand slid onto his thigh, fingers splayed, and the heat of breath and wet of Gil’s mouth traced his length through his thin cotton underwear.

He couldn’t wait for the fabric to be pushed aside, the last barrier gone, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare hurry things, just opened his mouth and tried to drag enough air into his lungs.

His hand found Gil’s head, fingers tangling in dark hair. Holding him close, urging him on.

Finally the cotton was pulled away, and the slick heat of Gil’s mouth was on him, tongue exploring, sending shivers of pleasure through him. He felt as if his knees were going to go weak, as if he’d end up crumpled on the floor.

Somehow a small noise was wrenched from deep within him as his length was taken in, the heat and wet, the gentle suck, the tongue exploring the sensitive tip.

It was different to how he’d imagined - better, in so many ways. Gil’s hand joined his mouth, a tight tunnel of warmth that he let himself thrust into, his hand holding Gil’s head, thighs quivering with need.

There was little finesse to his movements, the fear of being caught, the force of his own lust, the feel of Gil’s mouth, all meant he was racing to completion.

Gil seemed to sense it, and the hand left his cock, instead digging into his buttock, pulling him in, as he felt like his entire length was in Gil’s mouth, pleasure coursing through him as the more animal need to take and thrust and chase his orgasm overtook him.

His other hand joined the first, and urged on by Gil’s own movements he drove his hips forward, panting out noises as his legs shook so hard he was sure he’d collapse before his orgasm hit.

Gil was making sounds too, choked-moans, and Pete finally came, his head lolling backwards, hitting the solid tree behind him, feeling Gil swallowing, sucking, licking, until it became far too much, far too sensitive, and he had to pull away, laughter bubbling up inside him as he pushed against Gil’s forehead as his tongue kept lapping at the sensitive tip.

“Stop,” he laughed, panting. “I can’t…”

And Gil stood, smoothly, leant into him once more, kissed him, tongue licking over his lips, his teeth.

He was still breathing hard, hot, and somehow it almost felt more intimate than what they’d just done. Sharing a breath, sharing the taste of him.

Then Gil was stepping away from him, hand trailing over his cheek, a last finger brushing over his lips.

“I’ll find you, tomorrow, once I spoke to Wright. Be ready to move out.”

“But…” Pete fumbled with his underwear, trying to make himself decent again, trying to follow. “Don’t you want…”

“Tomorrow.” Gil grinned into the darkness, white teeth just visible.

Pete slumped back against the tree, trying to get enough energy to move.

 

The next day he was up early, his bedroll packed, saddlebags filled with food for himself and his animal. The quartermaster seemed to have been given instruction to let him have enough for a few days, and he wondered if that had been Gil’s doing, or Wright’s.

He carried his gear down to the rows of horses, beginning to saddle up as many others around him were doing.

Finally Gil appeared, causing a flurry of salutes, his saddlebags over his shoulder, bedroll under his arm, saddle and canteen in hand.

Pete rushed over to help him, grabbing the saddle. “Let me, Sir,” he said, carefully smoothing out the saddle blanket, then swinging the heavy saddle up into place.

“Thanks, Corporal,” Gil replied. “Got the supplies for yourself?”

Pete nodded. “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir.” He glanced at Gil, feeling stupid for falling back onto such formality, when he’d had his dick in the man’s mouth a few hours earlier. But also knowing it had to be done. Now more than ever they had to be sure not to slip up, forget their ranks, make someone suspicious.

He felt the slightest twitch in his pants at the thought of it though. Gil on his knees, in daylight this time, watching himself slide into that warm mouth. Maybe they’d get another chance, out on their own.

And he stopped, shook his head. He couldn’t have those thoughts, not now, not here.

“Let me, Sir,” he took the saddlebags and put them in place, then secured the bed roll, too.

Gil’s arm was still in the sling, although today he had his jacket on, the sleeve no longer hanging loose. Pete wished he’d been there to help, knowing it must have been painful.

“Thank you. You ready to move out?”

Pete nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Mount up, then.”

Pete watched as Gil easily pulled himself up into the saddle, turning his horse out of the line before he’d even settled.

He guessed Gil had spent a life on horseback, riding the rough prairies and plains, galloping down beeves, roping them in. The dust, the rough terrain, sometimes out for days - weeks - on his own.

It must be odd, he reflected, to suddenly be with so many people, all the time, never a moment when you weren’t in camp, or on the march.

 

They rode out of camp, side by side, not speaking, not even looking at each other. Then as the camp faded into the distance, Pete smiled.

“This it, then? Out on our own?”

“Three days,” Gil answered. “Then we go back, report. Maybe get out again.”

Pete nodded.

“You alone a lot, when you was on the ranches?”

Gil nodded. “Sometimes. Round-up, riding the lines. Other times in the bunkhouse, until I got my own place.”

Pete nodded. Dangerous ground, asking about a man’s past. But he was interested.

“Get your own place when you got married?”

Gil glanced at him. Then gave a nod. “Just before. Saved up, bought it. Wasn’t much. Just a little place, bit of land. Enough to grow vegetables, keep a few animals.”

“You must miss it.”

That brought more of a pause. But Pete wanted to show he didn’t mind, that he didn’t hold the past against Gil.

“Yeah. Miss…the place. Working for something of your own.”

“And your…girls?” Pete pushed.

There was the twist of a smile on Gil’s face. “Yeah, miss my girls. You can’t…there ain’t nothing like it, how much love you got, when you see your own child.”

Pete couldn’t help but smile.

“When you hold ‘em, they’re so small, so…you’d do anything for ‘em. Lay down your life for ‘em.”

Pete nodded. Wondering if that wasn’t exactly what Gil was doing now, in some way.

“Will you go back there?” he asked. “Go back to your spread?”

Gil shook his head. “Won’t be nothing there, now, not without someone doing all the mending, working the land. I’ll start fresh. Maybe start raising my own animals. Horses, pigs, cattle.”

He nodded again. Noticing Gil didn’t mention his wife, or his girls. Guessing he didn’t - couldn’t - know if he’d ever get them back. Not after the country and families were split apart by the war.


	9. Chapter 9

They stopped a few times, stretching out aching legs, letting the horses drink from a small stream, checking the map that Gil had been issued. They struck out across the grass lands, always alert, always aware that there could be danger in any woodland, behind any ridge. But the first day they saw little, apart from tracks and trampled grass and wheel ruts.

They found a small spring, low on a hillside, and set up a small camp for the night, setting a fire before it got dark to heat up coffee and food, then extinguishing it before its light could give them away as darkness fell.

Pete helped Gil from his jacket and shirt, and let him rest back against his chest as he held a cool wet cloth to Gil’s injured shoulder, hoping to soothe away some of heat and swelling.

He found himself pressing a kiss to Gil’s hair, too. Slow and gentle, feeling the absolute rightness of the warm body in his arms, the still night air only broken by the sound of their horses munching fresh grass and the call of a few coyotes and owls.

They lay down together, as the eastern sky turned deep blue.

Pete took his own jacket off, the earth still warm from the day.

He propped himself up on his elbow, traced his fingertip over Gil’s chest. Then up, around his jaw, strong and stubbled. He explored his lips, laughing as the gentle tickle made Gil smile.

Then he ran his finger down Gil’s nose, feeling the dip, the asymmetrical bone that told him it had been broken at least once. Then up to the creases and scars between his eyebrows.

“What happened?” he finally asked.

“Fight.” Gil answered. “In a saloon.”

Pete smiled. He could easily imagine it. The young cowhand, fists flying. Like the young lieutenant, shirtless and bloodied, in the woods.

“Someone think they got something to prove?”

Gil gave a smile that lit up his eyes, and Pete’s finger moved to trace the deep lines around his mouth.

“Yeah. Me. Thought I had a whole lot to prove. To him. To myself.”

“You win?”

Gil shook his head, slowly, careful not to dislodge Pete’s questing fingertips.

He lifted his own hand, traced the biggest scar.

“He hit me with a whiskey bottle. Damn near blinded me.”

Pete shook his head, and noticed Gil’s finger tracing a line under his left eyebrow, a mark he hadn’t seen before, thin and white.

“Lucky,” Pete murmured, leaning in, pressing a kiss on Gil’s lips.

“Have been, sometimes,” Gil agreed, smiling, meeting his gaze and pushing one of the curls back from his forehead.

“So…” Pete slid his hand down, over Gil’s adam’s apple, down the dark hair on his chest, then his belly, stopping at his waistband.

“Want me to…pay back, for last night?”

Gil’s hand linked with his, pulling it back up. “Last night was to say ‘sorry’, for not tellin’ you, for letting you…without knowing I was wed.”

Pete grinned. “I ain’t never had an apology like that before.”

He rested his head down hearing the steady beat of Gil’s heart, and closed his eyes.

Thought back to the night before. To how he’d do that, one day. To how he’d make it just as good for Gil. Then he frowned. ‘To say sorry’. ‘Last night was to say sorry’.

He stroked his hand over Gil’s belly.

“How old were you, when you started out being a cowhand?”

“Huh?” Gil moved to look down at him, then settled back again. “Worked here and there when I was twelve, thirteen. Odd jobs. Signed on to a ranch at fifteen.”

He wanted to ask how many other people Gil had apologised to the same way. But it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his business. And now, hopefully, they had time. Time to learn about one another. Time to talk. Time to just be. No more apologies.

So he settled his hand on the softness between Gil’s hip and ribs, and held him close, instead.

 

The next day they found far more recent traces of the enemy. Sites trampled down from campsites and drill. The stinking pits of latrines, and the muddy shoreline where men and horses had drunk their fill.

Pete examined the earth, looked at the tracks, made his best guess as to the number of men. Then they followed. The detritus of an army on the move clear to see, from discarded ration packaging to burnt-out campfires. The odd dead mule or horse.

Occasionally they would see a ranch or house, sometimes even a small town. They didn’t dare approach any of them. When everyone spoke the same language, wore the same clothes, you could never trust who was friend or foe.

It was late in the day when they saw the dust of marching feet, hanging low and oppressive in the clear air.

It had been a baking hot day, sweat running from their faces, dust coating them. It could only have been worse, marching in a column.

They paused, resting what little shade they could find, letting their horses browse the baked dry ground for any shoots or plants they could find.

“Should be able to get close,” Gil said. “Tonight, late. Let them settle, get their fires burning.”

Pete nodded. The fires would blind the men, meaning they could get closer. Count men, horses, guns.

They took turns to doze, Pete watching Gil’s face as he slept, one arm tucked under his head, the other wrapped around himself.

His shoulder was improving, Pete could see by the way he held himself. No longer so careful. No longer so protective.

As night fell, and the stars were scattered across the sky, they moved, covering the few miles carefully, always on the lookout for movement, always keeping to the low ground, only walking up ridges, lying on the brow of hills, scanning the land before them.

Finally they could see the camp. The twinkle of fires, the creamy lightness of tents, square and alien in the landscape.

They tied up their horses and began walking, finally crawling, then laying in the long grass, watching, waiting.

It was like their own camp. Some fires surrounded by jolly men, telling stories, laughing, other quieter. Some bodies already stretched out, sleeping. Others wandering around, the light of the fires sometimes glinting from a buckle or button.

Gil’s hand found Pete’s waist, then slid lower, offering his butt a warm squeeze.

Pete looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Ain’t hardly the time,” he murmured, smiling.

Gil squeezed again in answer. “Just takes more willpower than I got, not to touch, when you’re all laid out like this.”

Pete grinned and shook his head, and went back to watching, counting the tents, trying to count the horses.

 

Some of the fires were slowly extinguished, the men stretched out, rows and circles of dark shapes against the parched grassland.

They crept forward, watching the sentries on patrol, watching the few white tents where light still glowed.

Finally the camp was quiet, just the odd figure moving around.

“So?” Pete whispered.

“Seen enough?” Gil asked.

He shrugged. He didn’t know what else they could do. He’d noted the approximate number of men and horses, noted the size of the artillery, best he could.

“Wait here,” Gil suddenly said, and before Pete could answer he was moving away, swallowed by darkness.

It was lonely. The gentlest of breezes kept him on alert, as the grass around him swayed. He waited for a shout, a commotion, some sign that whatever Gil was doing had been found out.

But there was nothing.

An owl screeched nearby and he jumped out of his skin, heart pounding.

Then there was another sound, a scurrying, the definite sound of movement through the dry grass.

And Gil was back, a smile on his face, something in his hand.

Pete frowned, wondering if he’d been bold enough to creep into an officer’s tent, steal some orders or paperwork.

“Come on,” Gil whispered.

With frequent backward glances they crept away, finally reaching their horses and riding further into the night, before finding a small draw to bed down in.

“What is it?” Pete asked, as Gil retrieved the packages from down the front of his tunic.

“Coffee,” Gil’s smile was evident in his voice, and a package was pushed into Pete’s hands. “And bacon.”

Pete grinned. He hadn’t had bacon for weeks, and imagined cooking it up the next morning for a decent breakfast before they turned and headed back to their camp.

 

He shook out their bed rolls, heaping the rubberised ground sheets on top of one another, hoping to soften some of the rocky ground, then putting one of the blankets on them, too, given the warmth of the night air.

After removing his jacket and shirt, and loosening the buttons on his pants he lay down, waiting for Gil to return from the horses, stretching out and looking up at the stars.

The moon was just bright enough to see by, and he spotted the talk, dark figure of Gil approaching.

“So, tomorrow we turn back,” he said, keeping his voice low, knowing how well sound carried at night.

“Yeah.” Gil didn’t sound so happy, but Pete thought - hoped - that their scouting had been a success, that they’d get to do more of it, once the information they’d gathered had made it back to the Generals.

Gil knelt down, unbuttoning his tunic, before letting it slide from his arms. Then awkwardly pulled his undershirt over his head.

As he lay down Pete could feel the heat radiating from him, and smell the mixture of smoke and horse and sweat.

He rolled over, ending up tight against Gil’s side, skin to skin, exploring again. Fingers smoothing through the silky hair on Gil’s belly, pushing against it to slide up and rub over a nipple.

“So…” he began.

“So?” Gil’s own fingers were trailing lazily up and down his side, almost tickling.

“What you did…” he let his fingers move lower, down Gil’s long torso, over his waistband.

“Figured you might want to try something different.” Gil’s voice was low, and Pete could see his eyes glinting slightly in the moonlight.

“Different?” He shifted, his cock already filling in his own pants. He thought he knew what Gil meant. Heard that…people did that.

Gil gave a half-shrug. “If you wanted.”

He licked his lips, unsure. Unsure he even really knew what they were talking about. Unsure he wanted to do it if it was what he thought.

“You…done it before?” he asked.

The half-shrug again. As if Gil didn’t want to tell him. He supposed he wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t the sort of thing people talked about.

He’d been with a few girls. Ones who didn’t want to marry, just wanted some fun, before growing up and settling down. Sneaking away, almost like he and Gil were doing, away from parents and families and anyone else, to lie in sweet meadows or secret hideaways.

“What do we…do?” he asked.

Gil pulled him in for a kiss, reaching up for it, and Pete could feel the quiver of tension in his belly as he held his head up. He pushed him back, pushed him onto the floor, chasing his lips, pressing kisses to him, then opening his mouth, seeking more.

Gil wriggled, dragging him further on top, moving one leg, until he was stretched out, their chests and stomachs pressed together, his legs between Gil’s own, and he gave an experimental roll of his hips, enjoying the friction.

“Do whatever we want,” Gil said, between kisses. “Because tomorrow we’re back in camp, an’ I don’t know how long I can wait to have you again.”

Pete smiled.

He’d never felt so desired. The women he’d been with had wanted fun, wanted sex, but never really wanted him.

“I got oil,” Gil continued. “Can use that. Makes it easy.”

Pete swallowed. They really were talking about…that. His mind wandered back to the feel of Gil’s hand on him, the slick slide when he’d spilled. Maybe it would be like that.

Unless Gil wanted to use him, wanted to be the one who took him.

Gil’s hand slid down between his lower back and his waistband. “Sure feel like you like the sound of it.” He gave a thrust up, and Pete couldn’t help but mirror the action.

“I ain’t never…I mean, not with…I’ve only been with women,” he finally confessed.

Gil kissed him again. “It ain’t so different,” he answered.

Pete gave a smile. He was pretty sure it would be, for one of them.

 

Gil rolled them both over, kissed him again, then sat up, pulling off his boots, his socks.

Pete could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but followed his lead.

Then Gil was wriggling about, shoving his pants and underwear down, kicking them off in a pile, and rolling onto his front, stretched out. Ridiculously tall, the slight sheen of sweat on his back, the gentle swell of his buttocks just visible in the moonlight.

He was rooting in his saddlebag, and finally pulled out a small bottle, wedging it between some of the rocks, to keep it upright.

Pete slowly pushed his own pants down, casting them aside, feeling the warm air caress his body, the rough blanket under his knees.

He tentatively stroked down Gil’s back, bone and muscle, but still slightly soft to the touch.

 

Gil pulled the cork from the bottle of gun oil, and Pete watched as he poured a little into his palm, tilting his hand so it ran down the groove between two of his fingers.

“All you gotta do,” Gil said, twisting, reaching around himself. “Is get all slicked up.”

Pete couldn’t tear his eyes away - he couldn’t see much, but could make out Gil’s fingers, slowly disappearing, see the flex and tension in his lower back.

“Here, add some more,” Gil passed him the bottle, and he sat up, still transfixed, and poured a little more oil onto the point where Gil’s fingers were sliding into his body.

“It don’t feel…odd?” he asked, his own hand hovering, afraid to touch, afraid to break whatever spell he was under.

“Maybe, first few times,” Gil answered.

Pete swallowed, poured a little more oil on, the gentle scent drifting up from hot flesh. It reminded him of all the times he’d cleaned out his gun, the peanut oil on the warm metal.

He was never going to be able to do that again without thinking of this moment.

“Can help, if you want.”

He hesitated, then reached out, his fingers sliding over the oiled skin, tracing Gil’s own, sliding down the crease of his buttocks.

“You ready?” Gil’s voice made him jump out of his reverie.

“Yeah, I mean…I think so.” He licked dry lips, as Gil rolled onto his side, held out his hand in silent demand, and for a moment Pete couldn’t work out what he wanted, then he suddenly realised he still held the bottle, forgotten in his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Were you this nervous first time you was with a girl?” Gil smiled. Pete could see his teeth white in the moonlight.

Pete gave a grin himself, remembering back.

“Maybe,” he answered.

Gil poured a little more oil into his hand, propping the bottle back amongst the rocks, then reached down, palm sliding around Pete’s erection, and Pete felt like he could almost come right then, closing his eyes as the slight coolness contrasted with the heat of Gil’s hand.

“Mercy,” he breathed.

Then Gil’s hand slid away, and he lay back on his front, twisting to look at Pete over his shoulder.

“Just go slow an’ easy,” he said.

Pete nodded, then settled between Gil’s legs, oblivious to the stones and pebbles digging into his knees, looking down, watching as he leant forward, hands braced on the ground either side of Gil’s chest, and his cock slid perfectly between Gil’s buttocks, snug and slick, and he gave a few gentle thrusts, enjoying the feel of the sweet, slippery heat.

And for a moment he wondered if this was it, this was what he was supposed to do.

Then Gil reached back, large hand pushing him down a little, guiding, and he felt the dip, the entrance, and gently pushed.

It was tight, but Gil didn’t make a sound, didn’t tell him to stop, just held him in place, letting him slowly rest his weight down, arms shaking slightly.

And suddenly he was sliding inside an unbelievable tight heat. He tried to control himself, the muscles in his thighs quivering.

“Oh sweet Lord,” he sighed out, feeling Gil’s hand moving away, leaving him free to sink all the way in, until his hips were resting on Gil’s butt, his breath ragged in his chest.

Then Gil move, just slightly, but it was almost too much, and he knew he needed to control himself or it would be over before it was begun.

He dipped his head down, pressing sloppy, open mouthed kisses across Gil’s back and shoulders, wherever he could reach, before daring to lift his hips, just a little, and settle back again.

Gil pushed back against him slightly, and he nearly let out a moan of pleasure. “Don’t, I can’t…” he rested down for a second, pressed against Gil’s back, arms tight against Gil’s chest, holding and wishing it never had to end.

“Like it?” He could feel Gil’s voice more than hear it, the deep rumble through his own chest.

“Mm,” he panted out. “I never…”

He felt another slight squeeze, and hoped that if he did move again it wouldn’t send him over the edge.

With one last kiss he pushed himself back up onto his arms, the movement changing the angle of his hips, driving him in further again.

He set up a rhythm, shallow thrusts into the velvet heat, but the first time he heard Gil moan beneath him he couldn’t help himself but give in to his natural instincts, speed up, panting, muscles burning, pressing Gil into the blankets, bunching the rough cloth into his fists as his arms threatened to slide from under him. Sweat ran down his face, dripped from his chin, landing in the dip of Gil’s spine, and as the white hot ecstasy exploded inside him he let himself collapse, wrapping his arms as tightly around Gil as he could, hips still moving, teeth and lips dragging over the salty skin of Gil’s back, trying to hold him closer than he ever had before. He knew he was moaning, panting, could feel the tension in Gil’s muscles, but he couldn’t stop himself from wringing every last second of pleasure out of the act.

He’d never felt so close to another human in his life.

As he slowly came down from the peak of his pleasure he could feel Gil panting beneath him, the rise and fall of his ribs as they both caught their breath.

And slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out, the summer air feeling cool against his sticky, wet flesh.

He rolled onto his back, reaching out, arm uncoordinated, muscles weak. But he still needing to touch, and felt Gil move toward him, lean over him, body radiating heat, and plant a sloppy kiss somewhere on his chin.

He tried to respond, but all he managed was a moan.

Kisses trailed over his shoulder, Gil’s finger tips slid down his chest, and somewhere in the fog of his brain and fatigue in his muscles, he knew he needed to reciprocate.

He took a deep breath, rolled onto his side, pressed a firm kiss onto Gil’s mouth and reached down.

Gil’s hand was already there, already stroking himself, and Pete felt his own hand being re-arranged, fingers slipping and linking with Gil’s, wrapped firmly around hard flesh.

He was glad Gil was taking the lead, his muscles felt as wobbly as a newborn calf, but he kissed, tongue sliding between lips, over teeth, and let Gil move his hand, use him. Felt the movement become erratic, and gave an extra squeeze, his other hand tangling in Gil’s hair and holding tight, feeling the cool, slick come spreading over his hand, down his knuckles, as Gil’s body went rigid beneath him.

Swallowed down the moan Gil gave, muffling it with his own lips and tongue.

Then collapsed, head on Gil’s chest, hearing the frantic heartbeat bellow his ear, fingers still trailing across Gil’s stomach, slipping back together with Gil’s own hand.

The rough blanket was pulled over him, wrapped over his back, fending off the first hints of the cool night breeze.

“All right?” Gil asked, breath ruffling his hair.

He tried to nod, but gave up, instead squeezing Gil’s hand. He looked up at the stars, twinkling in the heavens.

“Yeah,” he answered, softly. “We’re gonna be all right.”

And somehow, despite everything, he believed it would be true.


End file.
